


astrarchē (queen of stars)

by talkwordytome



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018), Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Angst, Case Fic, Crossover, Elizabeth MacMillan is a BAMF, Faustus Blackwood is a fucking fuck, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, MFMM, caos, this fic owes a massive debt of gratitude, to both sarah waters and downton abbey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:20:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23724481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkwordytome/pseuds/talkwordytome
Summary: In which I write theMiss Fisher's Murder MysteriesandChilling Adventures of Sabrinacrossover fic that probably no one asked for but sometimes you have to realize your own dreams, y'know?
Relationships: Hilda Spellman & Sabrina Spellman, Hilda Spellman & Zelda Spellman, Phryne Fisher & Jack Robinson, Phryne Fisher & Zelda Spellman, Sabrina Spellman & Zelda Spellman
Comments: 101
Kudos: 90





	1. queer, queer happenings indeed

**Author's Note:**

> TW for graphic descriptions of abuse/sexual violence!
> 
> TW for mentions/descriptions of murder/death!
> 
> A few logistical items going in:
> 
> 1\. For _CAOS_ fans, this is a non-magical AU; I really did try to figure out a way to incorporate magic into the storyline but it just was too much in terms of plotting. Besides, the main appeal of the CAOS characters (for me, anyway) lies in their personalities, and those are unchanged.
> 
> 2\. This fic takes place in the late 1920s, just like _MFMM_ does.
> 
> 3\. For those of you who are here for _MFMM_ specifically and are not familiar with _CAOS_ you do not really need to know about most of the show's canonical plot lines to enjoy this fic. Some background on the characters: Zelda Spellman and Hilda Spellman are sisters and they are in charge of raising their niece, Sabrina, after the deaths of her parents when she was a baby. Zelda Spellman is very smart and intense and has a generally disapproving vibe, but is extremely protective of the people she loves. Hilda Spellman is the sweeter, kinder Spellman sister but will fuck you up if you hurt someone in her family. Faustus Blackwood is a bag of dicks, and he and Zelda were actually briefly married in the show. He was an abusive asshole, though, and she eventually divorced him.
> 
> 4\. For those of you who are here for _CAOS_ specifically and are not familiar with _MFMM_ , here's a quick summary of the show: Phryne Fisher is a lady detective who often works side by side with DI Jack Robinson to solve murders in post-WWI Melbourne, Australia. She is the very definition of a "modern woman": she's sexually adventurous, loves to drive her Hispano Suiza, is a feminist, and says and does what she wants when she wants. Dot Williams is Phryne's secretary/companion and is too good and pure for this world.
> 
> Shout-out to cjscullyjanewaygay for being my beta and also my girlfriend!
> 
> I v much hope people besides me and my girlfriend enjoy this! I know it's sort of conceptually a strange idea, but I think the characters work well together. And it's fun trying something a bit different.

_A mirror-bright silver breakfast tray clattered to the marble floor. The Wedgewood teapot shattered; the matching cruet of raspberry jam splattered everywhere, like blood. Over the din of smashing dishes, the terrified shriek of the maid: “Lord Blackwood! Lord Blackwood! Oh, Lady Blackwood, come quickly, please come quickly!”_

_At the bottom of the curved staircase lay the crumpled body of one Faustus Blackwood. His neck was bent at a hideously unnatural angle, and his eyes stared unseeing towards the ceiling. He was still dressed in his wingtip suit and crimson button-up from the evening before. A marbled puddle of spilled tea and blood spread out beneath him._

_Perhaps most importantly, he was very unquestionably dead._

* * *

“Good morning, miss,” Dot said brightly, raising the blinds in Phryne’s bedroom.

Phryne stretched languidly, wearing only a peach silk nightie and a sleepy smile. “Good morning,” she answered through a yawn. She propped herself up on her pillows and gratefully accepted the breakfast tray Dot held out to her. “Anything interesting in the paper this morning?”

“Mmm,” Dot said, considering, “I don’t think so… oh!” She handed over the paper in question, pointing questioning it at the back page. “In the death announcements, there was something about this man—I can’t remember his name, but it was something odd and striking—who was apparently _quite_ wealthy and powerful. He died at home, it said, and he was just shy of 45.”

“Interesting,” Phryne said, opening the newspaper. She scanned for anything that matched Dot’s description, and stopped abruptly at one name in particular. “Dot,” she said slowly.

“Yes?”

“Does the name ‘Faustus Blackwood’ ring any bells?”

“That was it!” Dot said, then frowned. “It’s a bit creepy a name, isn’t it? _Faustus_. So strange to think of anyone looking at a lovely little baby and picking that out as his name.”

“I know him,” Phryne said as she read the announcement. “Not well,” she added. “He’s an acquaintance of an acquaintance. He and his wife Zelda are society people, and even hold minor titles in Britain; we’ve crossed paths at the occasional party.”

“His poor wife,” Dot said with great feeling. “Do they have any children?”

Phryne thought for a moment. “None of their own,” she said, “though I do believe Zelda took in her niece when the girl was just a tiny thing, and her teenaged nephew a few years before that.”

“Oh, those sweet little lambs,” Dot said. “I should make something for you to take over for them. I can’t imagine how they’re coping right now… I wouldn’t be.”

“Yes, quite,” Phryne said absently, re-reading the announcement. It was true that she didn’t know Lord Blackwood especially well, though the few times they’d met he had made a decidedly poor impression. He was somehow both dull and pompous—grievous enough sins each in their own right in Phryne’s estimation—and his hands had a most unseemly tendency to wander towards any young woman who found themselves standing alone. 

His wife, though: _Zelda_. A lovely name, one Phryne had always admired. She was beautiful, and clearly well-bred if she’d been considered a suitable match for Faustus, but whenever Phryne encountered her at events she had seemed aloof and uncomfortable. Most people dismissed it as haughtiness and snobbery, but that didn’t sit right with Phryne Fisher. If anything, Zelda seemed scared, though what she had to be scared of was uncertain. 

And now Faustus Blackwood was dead, cause unnamed. Queer, queer happenings indeed.

Phryne closed the newspaper decisively and set it down on her bedspread. “Dot,” she called out, “I do believe you’re right. We should absolutely prepare something for the Blackwood family. I’ll take it to them this afternoon. How does a cake sound to you?”

“Perfectly _scrumptious_ , miss.”

* * *

The Blackwood home stood imposingly at the end of one of Melbourne’s most prosperous streets, a garish red brick building with violet trim and a frankly ridiculous quantity of turrets and dormer windows. It was one of the newer constructions on the historic block, and Phryne recalled her aunt Prudence putting up a considerable fuss when it had been constructed some years before. What would happen to the manor now that Faustus was gone remained to be seen, but Phryne had a sinking feeling that it wouldn’t be permitted to remain in Zelda’s ownership, if she could claim any ownership at all.

Phryne trotted up the front steps, Dot’s quandong cake in hand, and reached an elegantly gloved hand up to press the brass button of the doorbell. An ominous three note chime sounded inside the manse, and a few seconds later the gilded door swung open. A little blonde girl of about ten or eleven—Zelda’s young niece, presumably—stood before Phryne, glaring at her suspiciously. “We’re not accepting guests,” she said, her voice prim and posh.

“Hello to you, too,” Phryne said mildly. “I’m here to see your aunt; is she at home?”

“Which one?” the girl asked.

Phryne opened her mouth to answer, but was interrupted when another voice called out, “Sabrina, love, didn’t I tell you we weren’t answering the door?”

A pleasantly plump woman with a cheery but tired face appeared behind the little girl. Her blonde hair was bobbed and set into bouncy curls, and she wore a spotted apron over her dress. She was also decidedly not Zelda Blackwood. “So sorry,” the woman said to Phryne in a jaunty British accent, “but we really aren’t interested in guests just now.”

“Not at all,” Phryne said, and extended the hand unencumbered by the cake platter. “Phryne Fisher.”

The other woman sighed but shook the proffered hand all the same. “Hilda Spellman.”

Into the awkward silence that followed, Sabrina piped up again. “Is that a cake?”

“It _is!_ ” Phryne said with her most charming smile. “My secretary made it, and she is the _most_ divine baker you could ever meet. Your aunt Zelda and I have met a few times at social engagements, and I was hoping I might drop it off and offer my briefest condolences? I read about her husband’s most unfortunate death in the paper this morning and felt that I simply had to do something.”  


Hilda considered her for a moment before turning to the girl, whose eyes remained fixed on the cake. “Sabrina,” she said, “be a good girl and go upstairs to see if your Auntie Zelda is feeling up to entertaining a visitor.”

Sabrina frowned. “But, Auntie,” she said nervously, “I thought we weren’t—”

“Sabrina,” Hilda said gently, cupping her hand around the girl’s tiny blonde-bobbed head, “it’s fine. Just go up and see, alright?”

Sabrina nodded, gave Phryne one more interested glance, and ascended the stairs towards her aunt’s bedroom. Hilda watched her go, then turned to Phryne a bit apologetically. “This has all been very difficult on her, bless her little heart,” she explained.

“I can only imagine,” Phryne said sympathetically. “How old is she? Ten?”

“Just turned ten a few weeks ago,” Hilda confirmed, beckoning for Phryne to follow her into the kitchen. “My sister and I have raised her since she was a baby; her parents—our older brother Edward and his wife Diana—died when Sabrina was only six months old.”

“Poor thing,” Phryne said, shucking her coat off as if she’d been here a million times. “So you and Zelda used to live together?” Phryne asked, settling herself at the kitchen table and unwrapping the cake.

Hilda nodded. “Yes, we all lived in our family home back in London until Zelda married Faustus three years ago. They moved here--along with little Sabrina--and I followed,” she said. “Do you have any sisters?”

“I did,” Phryne said, smiling wistfully. “Janey. But she died when we were children.”

Hilda blinked. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, but Phryne waved her off.

“There’s plenty of sadness in this house already, I think,” she said. “Where do you keep your knives?”

They’ve cut and plated Dot’s cake when Sabrina returned to the kitchen, followed closely by Zelda Blackwood. She was pale and visibly exhausted, dressed in an orchid-colored silk kimono and in her bare feet. Her reddish gold hair, usually so perfectly coiffed when they had met at parties, now hung in messy, tangled waves down her back. She folded her arms across her chest and stared at Phryne, as if trying to place how she knew her.

“Lady Blackwood,” Phryne said, remembering the woman’s title, “it’s lovely to see you, though I do wish it were under different circumstances.”

“You’re…” Zelda said slowly, squinting, “Phryne Fisher. Am I correct?”

“The one and only,” Phryne said. “We’ve met once or twice at society gatherings. I’m terribly sorry about your husband.” She stood up and tried to hand Zelda a plate of cake, but Zelda shook her head.

“I’m not feeling especially hungry, I’m afraid,” Zelda said, hanging back by the door. Sabrina eagerly took a slice piled particularly high with buttercream and sat herself at the table. 

“Zelds,” Hilda said imploringly, “we’ve talked about this, you need to eat—”

“I’m fine, sister,” Zelda snapped, then turned back to Phryne. “It is not my intention to be rude, but may I ask what, precisely, you are doing here?”

Phryne smiled slightly. “Cake,” she said, “and sympathies. Nothing more, I promise you.”

“You’re not the first person to come around looking for gossip,” Zelda sniffed. “I regret to inform you that there’s none to be found.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Phryne said pleasantly. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you with a slice of cake? It’s positively divine.”

Zelda gazed at Phryne, her expression inscrutable. Sabrina, who’d been silent for so long Phryne had nearly forgotten she was there, stood from her chair and pulled on the cuff of Zelda’s robe. “Please eat something, Auntie Zelda,” she said, looking on the verge of tears. “You’re going to get sick if you don’t, and really, it’s _delicious_.”

Zelda’s face immediately softened when she looked down at her niece. “I suppose,” she said, “that I might be able to manage a very small slice.”

Zelda weakly lowered herself into a chair and Phryne handed her an exceptionally generous piece. Sabrina immediately clambered into her aunt’s lap. “Sabrina—” Hilda said warningly, but Zelda shook her head. Phryne noticed, though, that Zelda winced slightly as Sabrina adjusted herself, as though in pain.

“It’s fine, Hildy,” she said, kissing Sabrina on her temple. “You’re getting too big for this, you know,” she said to Sabrina with no real conviction.  


“I’ll never be too big for this,” Sabrina said, wrapping her arms around Zelda’s neck. 

Zelda took a small, cautious bite of cake, her countenance brightening slightly as she chewed. “This is lovely,” she said. “Thank you for bringing it over.”

“It’s completely my pleasure,” Phryne said, and just then the doorbell rang.

Zelda glanced at the kitchen clock and groaned. “That’ll be that dreadful detective again,” she said, placing her face in her hands. “Hilda,” she said, her voice wavering, “I cannot cope; can you please talk to him, or… or just send him away?”

“Zelda,” Hilda said nervously, “you really can’t keep putting it off, love, you’ll have to talk to Mr. Robinson eventually—”

“I don’t _care_ ,” Zelda said, disentangling Sabrina from her lap and rushing from the kitchen. “I’m not speaking to him now sister, and if that’s too much of a problem he’s welcome to handcuff me and lead me off to the city jail.”

“ _Jail_?” Sabrina shrieked, then promptly burst into tears. “Auntie Hilda,” she sobbed, “he _can’t_ take Auntie Zelda, he _can’t_ , don’t _let_ him—”

“We’ll have none of that,” Phryne said, gentle but firm, mopping tears from Sabrina’s face with her handkerchief, given that Hilda looked on the verge of crying herself. “I happen to be old friends with DI Robinson,” she said to Hilda, smiling, “and I’m sure he would be _thrilled_ to hear from me.”

“How is it,” Jack Robinson said, closing his eyes and praying for patience when it was Phryne who answered the door, “that you always manage to be precisely where you shouldn’t be at precisely the worst time you could be there?”

“Hello, Jack,” Phryne said merrily. “Delighted to see you as ever.”

“Do go home, Miss Fisher,” Jack said. “Please. I have an interview to conduct and it’s going to be difficult enough without your interference.”

“With Lady Blackwood, I presume?” Phryne asked innocently. 

“I—how do _you_ know her?” Jack asked.

“We run in similar circles,” Phryne said. “Terrible shame about her husband.”

Jack narrowed his eyes. “How much,” he said, “precisely, do you know, Miss Fisher?”

“Only what was in the papers,” Phryne said. “How many days ago was it that he died? Two? Three?”

“Three,” Jack confirmed grudgingly, “and I’ve tried to get a statement from Lady Blackwood every day since with absolutely no success.”

“And how, exactly,” Phryne said, “ _did_ Lord Blackwood pass?”

Jack’s face clouded. “That information is strictly confidential,” he said firmly.

Phryne lit up. “Oh, so you’re suspecting foul play, then?” she asked. “I can’t think of why else it would be such a big secret.”

“My suspicions are none of your concern, Miss Fisher,” Jack said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an interview to complete.”

He brushed past Phryne and towards the stairs. Phryne followed doggedly behind. “She’s not going to talk to you, you know,” she said. “She said as much only a few minutes ago.”

“Then we’ll take her to the station and wait for her to talk there,” Jack said wearily.

Phryne grabbed his arm. “You’ll do _no_ such thing,” she said fiercely. “She’s been through quite enough, and that little girl, Sabrina? Her niece? Are you truly telling me that you’d put her through the trauma of seeing one of the only caregivers she’s ever known taken away in a police vehicle mere days after the _violent_ death of her uncle?”

“How do you know it was violent?” Jack asked.

“Because you just told me,” Phryne answered.

Jack tipped his head back and sighed, knowing that Phryne, as ever, was correct. “Then what do you suggest I do?” he asked. “The man fell down the stairs and shattered his neck in three different places. The family swears up and down that it was an accident with no witnesses. I _have_ to conduct that interview, Miss Fisher.”

“Let me speak with her, or at least allow me to accompany you,” Phryne said, as if it was the obvious conclusion. “I’m certain I can get answers from her. And between you and me, Jack,” she whispered, “I don’t think it was an accident either.”

* * *

Phryne carefully cracked open the door to Zelda Blackwood’s bedroom. The lights were off and the shades were drawn, but Phryne could just make out the woman’s shapely form lying prone in the center of her bed, her hair falling over her face. Phryne sat down gingerly on the bed’s edge and waited for Zelda to talk.

“I’m not going to speak to him, Miss Fisher,” Zelda said after a few minutes had passed, and she did not lift her head from her pillow.

“How did you know it was me?” Phryne asked.

“Hilda is incapable of staying quiet for more than ten seconds at a time,” Zelda said. “But I mean it; I’m not speaking to him.”

“Why?” Phryne asked. “All you have to do is tell him the truth: that he fell down the stairs in the night, and you have no idea how it happened.”

This made Zelda sit up. “How did you know—” she began, then stopped with a sigh. “Never mind. I suspect the whole city knows by now.” She lay back down before she continued. “Anyway, Hilda already told him precisely that, yet he refuses to leave us alone.” She drew a shuddery breath. “That horrid man can threaten me as much as he likes, but I refuse to relive the single most painful day of my life so he can jot it down in a notebook.”

“Detective Robinson understands that your husband’s death is a delicate subject—” Phryne started, but Zelda cut her off with a mirthless laugh.

“I am not referring to my husband’s death, Miss Fisher,” Zelda said.

“Then I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean,” Phryne said slowly.

“Then how fortunate for you that it’s none of your business,” Zelda said. 

“Zelda—”

“Lady Blackwood,” Zelda corrected waspishly. “I’ll retain my title and the power that comes with it until it is taken from me forcibly, thank you very much.”

“Lady Blackwood,” Phryne corrected, rolling her eyes discreetly. “All I want is to help you, and I’m sure that Detective Robinson feels the same way.”

Zelda sat up again, her chest heaving, her green eyes bright and angry in the gloom of the dimly-lit bedroom. “He does _not_ wish to help us,” she spat. “They never do. If he really wanted to help, he would leave myself and my family alone to pick up the remaining fragments of our shattered lives.”

At some point during her speech, Zelda’s robe had slipped from her shoulder, revealing milky skin marred by what looked startlingly like—

“Bruises,” Phryne murmured, leaning closer to get a better look. 

Zelda quickly adjusted her fallen sleeve and clutched the fabric of her kimono close to her body. “It’s fine,” she said quickly, but Phryne shook her head.

“Could I just take a peek at them?” she asked. “I was a nurse during the War.”

Zelda eyed her warily. “And what if I say no?” she asked.

“Then you say no,” Phryne said with a shrug. “I’m not going to force you, though I do think it would be in your best interest.”

Zelda’s tense posture loosened almost imperceptibly. Her long fingers twitched towards the kimono’s ties, and without standing up she slowly shrugged it off. She looked fragile in her ivory slip, all pastels with her mossy eyes and caramel hair, the shield of bright fabric now pooled around her legs. “Go on then,” she said tiredly. “Have your look.”

Phryne turned on the bedside lamp, bathing herself and Zelda in soft yellow light. The bruising was far worse than she’d initially thought: there were the ones she’d noticed on Zelda’s shoulder, but there was also five-fingered bruising tracking her upper arms, as though someone had grabbed her much too hard. Newer and fading bruises ringed the base of her neck, and perhaps most concerningly of all were the raised red scars all over her back, some of them fresh enough that Phryne worried the wounds were in danger of re-opening. 

“Satisfied?” Zelda asked, pulling the robe back on.  


“Not in the least,” Phryne said shakily. “Did your husband do this to you?”

Zelda slid underneath her bed covers and didn’t answer. “I fear,” she said, so softly that Phryne had to strain to hear her, “that I’m taking ill. Tell your detective that I’ll speak to him tomorrow morning, after I’ve rested. My sister will show him out.”

“Lady Blackwood—” Phryne said, trying one last time, but Zelda interrupted her.

“I am not a well woman, Miss Fisher,” she said. “Please leave me be. I’ve given you all that I can for now.”

Jack was sitting at the top of the stairs when Phryne left the bedroom. “Any luck?” he asked.

Phryne sat down heavily next to him. “That depends,” she said, “on your definition of luck.”

Phryne told Jack about Zelda’s injuries, and the furrow in his brow deepened with every word. “What are you thinking?” Phryne asked.

“Many things,” Jack said, “and none of them are good. Perhaps most urgently: we now have a potential motive.”

“You don’t seriously think she killed him, do you?” Phryne asked. “She could hardly carry on a conversation for five minutes before she’d exhausted herself; I highly doubt she had the strength to push a man nearly twice her size down the stairs, Jack.”

“I think people are capable of doing nearly anything when they’re afraid and out of options,” Jack said, eyes flashing dark and worried. “Does she have an alibi?”

“We didn’t get that far,” Phryne said, “though she did say that she’d be willing to speak to you tomorrow morning.”

Jack stood, his knees popping. He ran a hand through his hair. “That’s better than nothing, I suppose,” he sighed. “But after that, I want you to stay away from this case, Miss Fisher,” he said. “Faustus Blackwood made for a dangerous enemy when he was alive, and I’m not sure he’ll be any less dangerous dead.”

“But dangerous enemies are the best sort of enemies to have,” Phryne said, a wink in her voice.

“I mean it,” Jack said sternly. “The things I’ve been hearing as we’ve investigated the victim are quite… concerning, to say the absolute least.”

“Concerning how?”

“Concerning in that they are concerning,” Jack said shortly. “I’m leaving now, Miss Fisher, and I suggest you do the same.”

“You can come out from there, you know,” Phryne said, once Jack and Constable Collins were out the front door. “I won’t bite.”

A huffy sigh could be heard from behind the drapes. Sabrina Spellman stepped out grudgingly, glaring at Phryne. “How did you know I was here?” she asked.

“Lucky guess,” Phryne said. “I was quite the eavesdropper when I was your age. It also didn’t hurt that I could see your feet,” she added, corners of her mouth twitching.

Sabrina didn’t smile. “I heard you talking about my Aunt Zelda,” she said.

“Yes, I imagine you did,” Phryne said. “Did we mention anything of particular interest?”

“You said that my Uncle Faustus was a dangerous enemy,” Sabrina said.

“Detective Robinson said that,” Phryne corrected. “I wasn’t especially well-acquainted with your Uncle Faustus.”

“He’s right,” Sabrina said. “That detective. He was dangerous.”

“Did he ever try to hurt you?” Phryne asked quietly, kneeling slightly so she was at Sabrina’s eye level.

Sabrina shook her head. “Not me,” she said. “Other people. When he thought I wouldn’t see. But I always did.”

“Did he ever hurt your Aunt Zelda?” Phryne asked.

The girl shrugged ambiguously. “Sabrina,” Phryne pressed gently, “it’s very important that you tell someone if you know anything about what your Uncle Faustus did to your Aunt Zelda. You would only be helping her.”

Sabrina lifted her chin in such a way that she suddenly looked uncannily like Zelda Blackwood. “Telling,” she said, “hurts people, too.”

* * *

The moment she got home, Phryne picked up her phone and dialed a number she knew by heart.

“Mac,” she said. “I need a very big favor.”


	2. precisely what he deserved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which new information related to Faustus's death is revealed, an unexpected invitation is extended and accepted, and Sabrina knows more about things than she should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for descriptions of physical/sexual abuse
> 
> This chapter is very much on the longer side, but I had to cover quite a lot of ground and exposition still, and I couldn't find a way to elegantly make it shorter. Hopefully it's interesting for people who aren't me!
> 
> Shout-out to cjscullyjanewaygay for working EXTRA hard to beta this chapter even though she was sleeby and tipsy!
> 
> So, the way the Academy works in CAOS the show makes zero sense (like, what do they DO for school before they're 16???), so for the purposes of this fic I decided it should work the way that American and British secondary schools work, in that kids start when they're around 11.

“You,” Mac said as she handed Phryne a thick folder, “owe me.”

“Don’t I always?” Phryne said, kissing Mac on both cheeks and ushering her inside. “You are absolutely _brilliant_ , Mac. Thank you for this. Stay a moment, won’t you? I’ll have Mr. Butler put the coffee on.”

Mac sat down in a velvet armchair and slung both legs over one of its arms. “What do you need with Zelda Blackwood’s hospital records, anyway?” she asked. “Did Jack ask for them?”

“Oh, no, this is all for me,” Phryne said, smiling slyly. “I have a few… hunches, let’s say, and I’d like to see if any of them turn out to be correct.”

“Do any of your hunches have to do with the distressingly long list of injuries that poor woman has sustained over the last three years?” Mac asked knowingly.

“A few might,” Phryne said, beginning to thumb through the folder. “What sorts of injuries?”

“All sorts,” Mac said, ticking them off on her fingers. “Few instances of cracked ribs, a broken wrist, head laceration, various sprains, a concussion, a badly wrenched shoulder. There’s plenty more; I started to lose track. It’s awful, Phryne,” she said, clearly disturbed. 

“She’s certainly very clumsy, Lady Blackwood,” Phryne said darkly, leafing through the records. “I’ve never heard of somebody with such a talent for ‘falling down the stairs.’ Perhaps that’s what attracted her to Faustus Blackwood.”

Mr. Butler brought Mac a steaming mug of coffee; she smiled her thanks, then took a long, indulgent sip. “Do you think that’s really how it happened?” she asked, once Mr. Butler had left. “That he fell down the stairs?”

Phryne made a non-committal noise at the back of her throat. “I’m not entirely sure what I think,” she said truthfully. 

“Would you like to know what I think?” Mac asked.

“I have a feeling that you’ll be sharing that information with me no matter my answer,” Phryne teased, perching herself on a nearby chair. 

Mac rolled her eyes. “In my professional opinion” she said, “regardless of how it happened, Zelda Blackwood is much better off with her husband in the ground.” 

Phryne raised her eyebrows. “That’s rather cynical, Mac,” she said. “Even for you.”

Mac shook her head. “You’ve no idea how many women I’ve seen come and go with injuries just like Lady Blackwood’s, Phryne,” she said, “and nothing is ever really done about it, and some of them come back in body bags. All I’m saying is that if some enterprising soul took it into their own hands to ensure that Faustus Blackwood couldn’t hurt that woman anymore, maybe it’s precisely what he deserved.”

The phone rang, and Phryne picked it up with a sigh. “Phryne Fisher speaking!” She smiled slightly at whatever the person on the other end of the line was saying. “Mhmm. Yes, I completely understand. I’ll be there as soon as I can. No, it’s absolutely no trouble at all. Alright. Good-bye now.” She hung up and turned to Mac with a small smirk on her face. “That was Constable Collins,” she said. “Apparently, Lady Blackwood is willing to give her statement only if I am also present.”

Mac laughed. “Oh, I’ll bet Jack is just thrilled with that,” she said.

“Silly Mac,” Phryne said, “Jack is _always_ thrilled when it comes to me.”

* * *

Jack opened the door looking quite frazzled indeed. “Hello there,” Phryne said pleasantly.

“She’s in the kitchen,” Jack said, bypassing pleasantries entirely. “We’ve been at it for over an hour. You certainly took your time getting here.”

“I was in my pyjamas when you called,” Phryne said, “and while my silk nightie is very fetching I didn’t think you’d give it due appreciation, considering the circumstances.”

Jack cleared his throat. “Right,” he said shortly, neck flushing. Phryne smiled impishly. Her ivory chinos and silk camisole paired with a matching fur-collared blazer and leather booties showed off her assets plenty enough.

Inside the manse, Zelda Blackwood was seated at the kitchen table, a gilded cigarette holder dangling from her long fingers as she stared absently off into space.

“Lady Blackwood?” Jack said, and Zelda twitched slightly. “Miss Fisher is here. Might you be willing to answer some of our questions now?”

Zelda exhaled a stream of smoke into the air. “If I must,” she murmured.

Phryne took the chair across from Zelda. “No need to rush,” she said. “Inspector Robinson will give you all the time you need.” She pointedly ignored the glare he shot her from across the room.

Jack flipped his notepad open to a fresh page and leaned back on the kitchen counter. “Could you walk me through the sequence of events on the night of your husband’s death?” Jack asked. “Where you went, when you were together, what you did, those sorts of things.”

Zelda inhaled a shuddering breath. “We had an engagement to attend,” she said haltingly. “A birthday party for an old family friend. We left the house around, oh, half-past seven, I suppose.”

“And that was you and Lord Blackwood?” Jack asked, scribbling quickly, as though worried that if they broke the rhythm of the conversation for a moment the fragile woman might stop speaking altogether.

Zelda nodded. “Sabrina stayed here, with the governess. My nephew, Ambrose, is away at Oxford for school. And Hilda, my sister, was at her own home with her fiancé.” 

“What time did you arrive at the party?”

“Just before eight,” Zelda said. 

“Can anyone besides you confirm that?” Jack asked.

Zelda nodded. “I’m sure they have a guest list somewhere,” she said, “if you’d like it.”

“That would be helpful,” Jack said. “How long did you and Lord Blackwood remain at the party?”

Here, Zelda’s expression darkened. “Faustus and I,” she said, “left… separately.”

“Why was that?”

Zelda swallowed. “We had a… er, disagreement,” she said, picking at her nails, “and I was not exactly in a… _festive mood_ once it was over.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “What,” he asked, “was the nature of your disagreement?”

Zelda scowled. “What does our private marital squabble,” she asked incredulously, “have to do with my husband falling down the stairs?”

“I assure you that every question I ask has a reason behind it,” Jack said smoothly.

“Go on,” Phryne nudged gently. “It’s alright; we just need a rough timeline of the evening.”

Zelda met her eyes for a moment, then sighed and stared at her hands as she spoke, more quietly now and to no one in particular. “Faustus, he… he did not wish me to speak to other men,” she said, “and had a tendency to become very… distraught whenever I did.”

“Can you elaborate on what you mean by ‘distraught’?” Jack asked as he wrote.

“Must I?” Zelda snapped, though she relented when Phryne placed a careful hand on her arm. “He— _we_ would argue, like any other married couple,” she said grudgingly. “He would accuse me of being unfaithful, I would accuse him of not trusting me, that sort of thing.”

“Must’ve been some argument,” Jack said, peering up from his notepad, “if it put you in a bad enough mood to leave a friend’s birthday celebration without your husband.”

“Some very harsh words were exchanged,” Zelda said carefully.

Jack squinted, like he knew there was more to the story, but a knowing look from Phryne made him reconsider and press onward. “And what time did you arrive back home?” he asked.

“Approximately a quarter to eleven,” Zelda said. “Sabrina was already asleep; I sent the governess to bed, and I was in bed by midnight.”

“Did you hear your husband come home?” Jack asked.

Zelda shook her head, suddenly shy. “I have rather awful insomnia,” she said, “and I have a medication—doctor prescribed,” she added quickly, “that helps me sleep, when I need it. I was a bit upset from the argument, so I took a dose. The next thing I remember is the maid screaming for me because Faustus… you know.”

“And you’re _certain_ ,” Jack prodded, “that you didn’t hear any sort of disturbance? Didn’t hear him fall? Didn’t hear anyone in the house who shouldn’t have been there?”

“I just _said_ I didn’t,” Zelda said, a burst of anger flaring in her eyes. “I’ve told you everything I remember. Are we quite finished? I have a splitting headache and I’d like to lie down.”

Jack jotted down a few more notes. “Alright. That about wraps it up for now, though we will be in touch if we need anything else from you.” He shook Zelda’s hand—she looked reluctant, but took his hand with all the curt politeness of a society wife nonetheless—and then he left.

As soon as the front door shut, Phryne stood and began looking through Zelda’s cabinets. “What are you doing?” Zelda asked vaguely, as if not expecting a real answer.

“I am looking for—ah!” Phryne reemerged from the cabinet with a large decanter in hand. “This. Where do you keep your tumblers?” she asked.

Zelda stood and retrieved two herself. “It’s a bit early for whisky,” she said. “Don’t you think?”

“Purely medicinal, Lady Blackwood,” Phryne said with a wink. “Do you take it neat? Or on the rocks?”

“Zelda is fine, Miss Fisher,” she said, matter of fact. “I suppose there’s no call to stand on ceremony after all that. And neat, please.”

“And you,” Phryne said, pouring them both generous glasses, “may call me Phryne, though hardly anybody does.” She set down one of the tumblers in front of Zelda and took a seat. “Now,” she said, “how about you go on and tell me what _really_ happened the night your husband died.”

Zelda took a long sip of her drink. “Most of what I told Inspector Robinson was true,” she said after swallowing. “We did go to a party; our friends, the Nights, it was their daughter Prudence’s sixteenth birthday. We left at half-seven; Sabrina stayed here with her nanny. And Faustus and I really did have an… argument.”

“Though I take it,” Phryne said as delicately as she could manage, “that more than words were exchanged?”

Zelda smiled without any pleasure. “You would be correct,” she said quietly. She took another sip of whisky. “Faustus has—had, I suppose—rather a violent temper. It was one of the things that… attracted me to him at first, actually. We’ve known each other since we were children, and he was always so… _passionate_ , so hot-blooded. It was all… oh, I don’t know… the roughness and heat of it felt very _romantic_ when we were initially falling together.”

“Until it wasn’t anymore,” Phryne said softly, and Zelda nodded.

“Until it wasn’t anymore,” Zelda repeated. “After we wed, in those instances when he thought I was… betraying him, he would take it upon himself to teach me a lesson, for lack of a better parlance.”

“And did he _teach you a lesson_ the night of the party?” Phryne asked, beginning to feel slightly sick as she watched the pale woman drain her glass. 

“Faustus thought it might be helpful if he reminded me of my… wifely duties,” Zelda said, “which he then proceeded to do in the Nights’ upstairs powder room.”

“Is that where the bruises you showed me came from?” Phryne asked.

Zelda nodded and angrily brushed away an errant tear. “I was not inclined to agree with him,” she said, “and Faustus has never been overly fond of hearing the word _no_.”

“And the scars on your back?” Phryne asked. Zelda was now shaking so violently that Phryne had half a mind to hold her hand, but was afraid the woman would startle into silence if she tried. 

Zelda refused to meet Phryne’s eyes as she answered. “Faustus,” she said, “had some… unusual… bedroom related proclivities. As did I,” she added, blushing. “Those are merely… evidence… of our various encounters.”

“Even the newest ones?” Phryne asked. “They looked terribly fresh when I saw them yesterday.”

Zelda closed her eyes. “When Faustus got home,” she whispered, “he was very drunk, and remained determined to find a suitable punishment for my crimes.”

“Perceived crimes,” Phryne said sharply. “You did nothing wrong. You’re well within your rights to speak to another person, and to revoke consent at any point you see fit. Your husband, however, is certainly _not_ well within _his_ rights to beat you within an inch of your life for either.”

“The law might disagree with you,” Zelda said.

“Then perhaps the law is wrong,” Phryne said tartly. “Do you remember what happened next?”

“I took my medicine and went to sleep,” Zelda said dully, “and remember nothing until the next morning, just as I told Detective Robinson.”

Phryne was certain that there was still more to Zelda’s story, as several key details very much did not line up—most notably her claim to Jack of taking sleeping pills much earlier and her specific phrasing of _when Faustus got home_ —but the woman looked too ashen and faint for any sort of meaningful conversation to continue. Instead, Phryne changed the subject. “Where’s your sister today?” she asked. “Did she not want to come back for the police interview?”

“No, she did,” Zelda said, “but I told her to go to work instead. She hasn’t gone in days and we need to start returning to some semblance of normal, especially if the two of us are to support ourselves and Sabrina until she marries. I had the nanny take Sabrina to the park,” Zelda added before Phryne could ask.

“Is it just the two of you here for now, then?”

“And a few essentials of the household staff,” Zelda said, “though they were always more loyal to Faustus.” She poured herself a second glass, eyes unfocused. 

“If this question is too forward, you’re under no obligation to answer,” Phryne said, “but is there any particular reason you and Sabrina aren’t staying with your sister? Surely it must get lonely, the two of you in this big house by yourselves.”

Zelda rolled her eyes and took a swig of whisky. “I love my sister,” she said, “but she worries, and it can be smothering.”

“It might be nice to have someone worrying about you through something as terrible as this, Zelda.”

“And she’s more than welcome to,” Zelda said, with just a touch of wry humor, “but at a safe distance. Besides, she has her own life, and her fiancé besides, and it didn’t seem right to impose on her hospitality. This is difficult enough for her as it is.”

Phryne took a sip of her own whisky, considering something. “I have a proposition for you,” she finally said.

Zelda raised her eyebrows. “Oh?” she asked.

“I have a very large home that has several spare bedrooms,” Phryne said, “and I’ve a ward, Jane, who’s not so much older than your Sabrina. What would you say to the two of you staying with me for a while? Just until the investigation is concluded. It might make you feel a bit safer. And I promise,” she added, “that I will not worry over you without being given your explicit permission to do so.”

Zelda narrowed her eyes. “What exactly,” she asked, “are you hoping to receive from this?”

Phryne tilted her head. “Absolutely nothing at all,” she said, and it was almost true. She hoped she could get to the bottom of what had really happened that night, but mostly she hoped to learn more about this darkly compelling woman. 

“I’m not accustomed to people doing things for me purely out of the kindness of their hearts,” Zelda said, cautious. 

“Well,” Phryne said, “isn’t there a first time for everything?”

* * *

Phryne Fisher’s doorbell rang at precisely half-six that evening.

“Zelda!” she said, opening her door wide. “And Sabrina! Please do come in, we’re so pleased that you’re here.”

“Thank you for having us,” Zelda said, then pointedly placed a hand on the small of Sabrina’s back when she stayed silent.

“Thank you for having us,” Sabrina parroted, eyes cast downward. The poor little thing was white as a sheet, Phryne noted. Something would have to be done about that.

“It’s no trouble at all. This is my ward, Jane,” Phryne said as Jane bounced down the stairs. “Sabrina, you’ll be sharing her room and toilet if that’s alright. Jane, why don’t you show your guest upstairs and help her unpack, hmm?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jane said, then took Sabrina by the hand. “Come on. I’ve got all sorts of books you can look at.”

“Well,” Phryne said, clapping her hands together, “what can I get you? Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

“I think,” Zelda said, slightly uncertain, “that I would like to have a moment just to get settled, if that is alright with you.”

“Of course!” Phryne said. “Let me take you to your room. I’ll have Mr. Butler bring you a tea tray, just in case. How does that sound?”

“Lovely, thank you,” Zelda said. “Oh, no, I can get it, really—” she protested when Phryne took her suitcase, but Phryne waved her off.

“Nonsense,” Phryne said brightly. “You’re my guest. You won’t lift a finger while you’re staying with me, and I refuse to hear anything to the contrary. I’d never dream of giving anyone an opportunity to question my capabilities as a hostess.”

Not quite an hour later, Mr. Butler had dinner ready and Dot had set the dining room table. “Miss, I thought we might eat in the dining room to celebrate our new guests? If you don’t mind me joining you all, of course.”

“I would stand for nothing less,” Phryne answered, squeezing Dot’s hand affectionately. “I’ll go and fetch them now.”

With the food served and everyone munching quietly, Phryne took it upon herself to break the silence. “So Sabrina,” where do you go to school?”

“My Auntie Zelda and Auntie Hilda homeschool me,” Sabrina said.

“Though she’ll be going abroad to study in England next year when she’s eleven, just like her cousin Ambrose,” Zelda said. "It's a _wonderful_ opportunity, and certainly not one I was given at her age."

“Except that I don’t want to,” Sabrina said gloomily, pushing food around her plate. “I want to stay here, with you and Auntie Hilda.”

Zelda looked instantly exasperated by that particular line of conversation, so Phryne quickly moved them along past it. “What’s your favorite subject?” Phryne asked.

“History.”

“Jane’s too!” Phryne exclaimed. “She has all sorts of books on Egypt and ancient Rome.”

“I need to read everything I can,” Jane explained, “because I want to go to university someday.”

“Of course you do; you’re incredibly bright,” Phryne answered, as Jane beamed proudly. “And so you shall.”

“Jane showed me some of her books while we were upstairs,” Sabrina said, cheering slightly. “I really liked the one about Cleopatra.”

“Isn’t she fascinating?” Phryne said. “That’s one of my favorites, too. We have plenty more on the shelves down here, and you’re more than welcome to read whatever you like.” 

After they finished dinner, Sabrina clung persistently to Zelda. She adamantly shook her head at every gentle suggestion to go and read or play a game with Jane, and eventually Phryne subtly waved Jane off. Jane disappeared up to her room, and Phryne and Zelda retired to the parlor, Sabrina trailing behind them. The little girl immediately climbed into Zelda’s lap once she was seated, just as she had the previous morning, though Zelda still seemed not to mind.

“It’s getting late,” Zelda eventually said, gently pushing an errant blonde curl behind Sabrina’s ear, “and we’ve had a long few days, darling. What do you think about getting in your pyjamas and heading to bed, hm?”

Sabrina shook her head and buried her face in Zelda’s chest. “I want to stay down here with you,” she mumbled. 

“Sabrina,” Zelda said, a note of warning in her voice, and Sabrina sighed.

“Fine,” she said sulkily, though she obligingly kissed Zelda on the cheek when it was offered to her. “Good night, Auntie. Good night, Miss Fisher.”

“Good night, sweet,” Zelda said. “I’m sure Jane can help you find anything in the toilet, though you should have everything in your kit.”

“How is she faring in the face of all this?” Phryne asked once Sabrina was out of earshot. 

Worry flashed across Zelda’s face. “I’m not sure,” she murmured. “She’s very sensitive, Sabrina, and very… perceptive to what those around her are feeling.”

“How much does she understand about what’s happened?”

“More than I’d like her to,” Zelda said, her voice wobbling. She covered her mouth with a delicate hand and stood. “Excuse me,” she said, and rushed from the room.

Phryne heard the click of Zelda’s heels on the stairs, then the sound of a door shutting. Phryne sighed and poured herself a large glass of bourbon. A good bourbon was her preferred beverage to accompany thinking, and she had quite a lot of thinking to do.

* * *

The following day was a Saturday, and the rest of the household was, as usual, already up and around by the time Phryne emerged. Jane and Sabrina were helping Dot with a jigsaw puzzle in the parlor, and Mr. Butler was busy tidying up the breakfast dishes. “Good morning, miss,” he said when Phryne came into the kitchen.

“Morning, Mr. B,” she said. “Any coffee left?”

“Plenty, miss,” he said, pouring some into a mug. “Cream?”

“Please,” Phryne said as she opened the paper. “Have you seen Lady Blackwood yet this morning?”

“I believe she’s still sleeping, miss,” Mr. Butler said, placing the coffee in front of Phryne.

“Good,” Phryne said. “That woman deserves all the rest she wants and then some.”

The doorbell rang. As Mr. Butler went to answer the door, Phryne scanned the paper for any information that might help her get a stronger grip on Faustus Blackwood’s demise, anything that Zelda might have been withholding, but came up empty handed. She sighed. Nothing worth doing was ever easy, she supposed, but one could always dream.

“A Miss Spellman here to see you, miss,” Mr. Butler said, bowing Hilda into the kitchen.

“Hello, you!” Phryne said, patting the chair next to her amiably. “Come on, have a sit. Mr. B’s made fresh coffee and I’m sure we can scrounge up a few pastries.”

Hilda Spellman obliged, though her disposition was not nearly so sunny as Phryne’s; she appeared even more exhausted than she’d been when she and Phryne had first met. “I think Zelda is still sleeping, and of course you’re welcome to wake her, though the poor lamb rather looks like she could use the peace and quiet.”

Hilda smiled faintly. “Zelda,” she said, and at Phryne’s questioning look added, “you called her Zelda. She must like you very much if she’s letting you do that; she’s Lady Blackwood to virtually everyone save myself, Sabrina, and Ambrose. Just coffee for me, please,” she said to Mr. Butler when offered a plate of croissants. “I’m actually not here to see Zelds, anyway; I’m here to see you.”

“Me?” Phryne said, sipping her coffee. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Hilda fidgeted with a loose button on her blouse. “I just,” she began, then blew a blonde curl out of her eyes with a small puff of air, “I need to know that my sister will be… safe, here, with you. I’m not referring only to logistical, physical safety,” Hilda added when she saw Phryne was about to respond, “though of course that’s important as well. What I mean is she has been through so much, my Zelds, and I cannot go through the misery of watching yet another person take advantage of her.”

Phryne tipped her head to the side. “Your sister seems to me very capable of looking after herself,” she said.

Hilda pursed her lips. “Zelda is very talented,” she said, “at making sure the world only sees the version of herself that she wishes for it to see.”

“Well,” Phryne said, leaning forward on her elbows conspiratorially, “lucky for you, that’s something Zelda and I have in common.”

“Hildy?”

Zelda Spellman stood in the kitchen doorway. She was wearing her colorfully patterned kimono and a lilac silk nightgown. Despite her nearly twelve hours of rest, her eyes remained puffy and shadowed, and she somehow managed to look even paler than the night prior. 

“Zelds!” Hilda exclaimed, hurrying over to her sister and wrapping a sturdy arm around her waist. “How are you? How did you sleep?”

“Tempestuously,” Zelda said, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Oh, I am sorry,” Phryne said, frowning. “Was the bed not comfortable? I have several other unoccupied guest rooms; you’re welcome to choose another.”

“No no, the bed was lovely,” Zelda said, attempting a wan smile. “I had the strangest dreams, that’s all. And I feel as if I’ve a cold coming on. I’m quite… foggy.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me, with all the stress you’ve been under,” Hilda fretted, pressing the back of her hand to Zelda’s forehead. “You don’t feel feverish.”

Zelda moved out of Hilda’s reach. “It’s nothing, Hilda,” she said. “Truly. Don’t fuss.”

Hilda made a face that indicated she very much would prefer to continue her fussing, but held her tongue. “Do you need me to bring you anything from the house?” she asked instead. “Do you have enough clothes? How long are you planning on staying?”

“Hildy,” Zelda said weakly, rubbing her temples, “please stop asking so many questions.”

“She’s welcome to stay as long as she wants,” Phryne said. “I have plenty of space, and I know Jane is so enjoying having Sabrina as a companion.”

Hilda glanced at the kitchen clock and sighed. “Dr. Cee is probably wondering where I am,” she said. “Zelds, are you _sure_ you’re alright?”

“I’m _fine_ , Hilda,” Zelda said, giving Hilda’s hands a reassuring squeeze. “Go to work. I’ll talk to you later.”

Hilda gave each of them a nervous smile, took a last sip of her coffee, and popped her head around the doorframe to say hello to Sabrina before making her way out the door. 

“Do you mind if I have a bath?” Zelda asked, quickly finishing off her sister’s coffee. “My shoulders are in dreadful knots and a hot bath has been known to help with that, on occasion.”

“Of course,” Phryne said, “use my tub. It’s roomier than the one in the guest bathroom. I have a marvelous lavender epsom salt that should have you set right in no time at all.”  


Phryne was finishing her own coffee and her paper when Sabrina sidled into the kitchen. “Goodness,” Phryne said, “this is clearly _the_ place to be this morning. Do you need something, Sabrina? Have you had any breakfast? Maybe these croissants will be more popular with you than they were with your aunties.”

Sabrina shook her head mutely. Her jaw was set and her eyes were full of stormy determination. “Miss Fisher?” she said.

“Whatever is it, Sabrina?” Phryne asked. “Are you alright? You’ve no color at all, darling; you look as if you might faint.”

“I’m fine,” Sabrina said, unknowingly perfectly echoing her Aunt Zelda. She took a deep breath. “It’s just,” she continued, “I think I might know something about how my Uncle Faustus died.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Prudence is canonically an orphan in CAOS but I want to potentially include her as a character and her parentage is too complicated for this already fairly complicated fic, so I opted to simplify matters.
> 
> HEY FRIENDS DID YOU KNOW THAT AUSTRALIA DID NOT HAVE ANY SORT OF DOMESTIC VIOLENCE LAW UNTIL THE 19-FUCKING-80S??????? BECAUSE I SURE DIDN'T AND WAS PRETTY FUCKING PISSED WHEN MY GOOGLE SEARCH FOR THIS FIC REVEALED THAT FRANKLY HORRIFYING INFORMATION!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


	3. enough grief for several lifetimes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the truth slowly starts to be uncovered, and Phryne and Hilda form an alliance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know about y'all, but for me I like having an image of the characters in my mind's eye, so here are some links for what the various characters look like!
> 
> **CAOS characters (for those people who are here because of MFMM):**
> 
> Zelda Spellman: https://imgur.com/vPMHoBy
> 
> Hilda Spellman: https://imgix.bustle.com/uploads/image/2018/10/30/150ba895-31f0-4c2d-84cb-8d23fc1545e0-cas_107_unit_00984r.jpg
> 
> Sabrina Spellman (she's 16 in the show but I'm using pictures of Kiernan Shipka from when she was Sally Draper in _Mad Men_ since she's only 10 in the fic): https://images.amcnetworks.com/blogs.amctv.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/mm509-sally-560.jpg
> 
> Faustus Blackwood: https://cdn.images.express.co.uk/img/dynamic/20/590x/secondary/father-blackwood-sabrina-1819524.webp?r=1554815833705
> 
> Dr. Cee: https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/riverdalearchie/images/2/2c/CAOS-Caps-2x03-Lupercalia-25-Dr-Cerberus.jpg/revision/latest/top-crop/width/300/height/300?cb=20200104154408
> 
> **  
> **MFMM characters (for those people who are here because of CAOS):**  
> **
> 
> Phryne Fisher: https://nationalpostcom.files.wordpress.com/2013/03/nathalie.jpg?quality=80&strip=all&w=780
> 
> Jack Robinson: https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/proxy/NCq94hK7Pk-6ZkuMIuKyjIAkURNCpV2TEw0iSQ8ebNKPfaTXQfDyesYN589JEIgmOWc3wkPXioqhdPON5Gug59blo-FZm1PzZj3x
> 
> Dot Williams: https://i.pinimg.com/originals/be/97/78/be977859e0e4ab5c9fdc977cfb95d794.jpg
> 
> Hugh Collins: https://i.pinimg.com/originals/ef/3e/20/ef3e200a0c199397195b40b6e740511f.jpg
> 
> Elizabeth MacMillan: https://66.media.tumblr.com/c6bb60a861dc0a5b0a19a2cc154eab41/tumblr_inline_p8fntz8MVT1rqk2s7_540.jpg  
> 

“It’s just… I think I might know something about how my Uncle Faustus died.”

Momentarily stunned into silence by this revelation, all Phryne could do was blink back at Sabrina. The little girl shifted her weight from foot to foot and scowled at Phryne. “Well,” she said, exasperated, “you _said_ that if I knew something I should tell you because it could help my Auntie Zelda, you _said_ that, and—”

“I know I said that, Sabrina,” Phryne said patiently, having regained her powers of speech. “I—here, come sit down next to me.”

“I’d prefer to stand,” Sabrina said stiffly, a near-perfect if accidental impression of her aunt Zelda.

“Sabrina,” Phryne said, trying for the look of stern affection she’d seen Zelda give Sabrina. 

Sabrina rolled her eyes. “I know what you’re doing,” she said, but after a moment she sat down next to Phryne anyway. “I’m not making it up,” she said. “I really do know something.”

“Has someone accused you of inventing stories?” Phryne asked.

“Not about this,” Sabrina said. “I haven’t told anyone about this. But grown-ups always think children are inventing stories when they know things that they shouldn’t.”

The space behind Phryne’s breastbone pinched uncomfortably as her mind flashed, unbidden, to Janey. “I’m familiar with what you mean,” she said to Sabrina. “For what it’s worth, I will never accuse you of making up something so serious. I know you’re smarter and far more sensible than that, as are most bright little girls who are treated as such.”

“Thank you very much,” Sabrina said somberly, drumming her fingers on the table. “Are you like the police?”

Phryne briefly pondered this. “A bit,” she finally answered. “I do many of the same things they do, but I’m not exactly… beholden to the same rules and restrictions. I’m also far better dressed.”

Sabrina squinted, fighting a smile. “If I tell you what I know,” she said, “does it mean you’ll have to tell that detective? And that if the person gets in trouble they’ll go to jail? Because if it does mean that I’m not telling you anything and you’ll have to figure it out without my help. And if you tell that detective that I know something, I’ll call you a liar and I won’t tell him anything, either.”

“No one will be going to jail without a thorough investigation and a verified confession, if a confession is what’s warranted,” Phryne said. “Is that helpful?”

“You didn’t say if you would tell the detective or not,” Sabrina said stubbornly, “and _that_ means _yes I will tell him_ because grown-ups always just ignore questions when they know answering them will upset someone. And if you tell him, my aunties will get into terrible trouble and I won’t be able to live with Auntie Zelda or Auntie Hilda anymore, and I’ll be an orphan for real and I’ll have to go to a sanatorium like Anne does in _Anne of Green Gables_ , and—”

“Sabrina!” Phryne said, alarmed by the poor thing’s catastrophizing. “Darling, you must calm down. You’re getting yourself thrown into an awful swivet. Here’s my completely honest answer: I don’t know if I’ll have to pass on what you tell me to Inspector Robinson or not, because it depends what you have to tell. But I _can_ promise that if I _do_ have to tell him, he won’t make any sort of… decision without first having a conversation with the persons involved. Alright?”

“No, it’s not alright,” Sabrina said heatedly. “Nothing about this is alright; it’s just scary and sad.” She sighed and pulled anxiously on a lock of her own hair. “Fine. I’ll tell you.” She inhaled shakily. “Uncle Faustus always hit my Aunt Zelda, and I wasn’t supposed to know, but I did. And the night that he died, my Aunt Zelda came home from the party without him, and she keeps telling people that she was asleep until the next day, except that she wasn’t.” 

“How do you know that she wasn’t asleep, Sabrina?” Phryne asked.

Sabrina swallowed. “Because I heard her and Uncle Faustus fighting when he got home later. He hit her, and they shouted a lot...” she trailed off. “And my Auntie Hilda was there, she’ll tell you if you don’t believe me.” she added. 

“I thought your Aunt Hilda was at her own home?”

“She was, for a lot of the night,” Sabrina said, “but when my Auntie Zelda first got home she was crying and she called Auntie Hilda, so Auntie Hilda came over. I came out of my room and asked what was happening, and Aunt Zelda pretended like she wasn’t crying and Auntie Hilda told me to go back to bed and that Aunt Zelda just had a bad dream. But Miss Fisher,” Sabrina said, distressed, “The next morning Aunt Zelda looked so badly hurt—more hurt than she usually did after he hit her.”

“Oh, Sabrina,” Phryne said softly, but Sabrina continued as if she hadn’t heard.

“I went back to bed but I didn’t go to sleep, and for a while it was just the two of them, and I heard them talking through my wall because Aunt Zelda's bedroom is next to mine. Then the front door opened,” Sabrina said, and a deep shudder passed through her, “and it was _him_ , and Auntie Zelda told Auntie Hilda that she had to leave because it wasn’t safe, but Auntie Hilda said no, she wouldn’t _for all the money in the world_. And then,” she continued, her voice thick now with tears, “there was so much… so much shouting and noise, and screaming and hitting, but then suddenly, everything was quiet, but not a good quiet.” 

Sabrina looked at Phryne, her chin and mouth quivering. “Right before it got quiet,” she whispered, “I heard a huge loud _thud_ , and I was afraid he’d killed Aunt Zelda. Then I heard the sound of something heavy falling, and Auntie Hilda screamed the worst scream I’ve ever heard in my life, and Aunt Zelda was crying, and… and I think it’s because my Auntie Zelda killed him, Miss Fisher. But _it wasn’t her fault_ ,” Sabrina said fiercely, a small sob escaping her. “He would’ve killed her, I know he would’ve, and he was always… _hurting_ her and nobody ever did _anything_ about it, nobody but Auntie Hilda ever even _tried_ , and I know I shouldn’t be but I’m _glad_ he’s dead because I _hated_ him, and now he can’t ever hurt her again, but she _can’t_ go to jail, she just _can’t_.”

Phryne reached out for Sabrina, but Sabrina stood so quickly that her chair clattered backwards onto the floor. She buried her face in her hands, weeping inconsolably, and ran from the room. 

“Sabrina—!” Phryne heard Zelda say, shocked, when Sabrina reached the top of the stairs. “Sweetheart, what’s happened?” But a door slammed shut, and then all fell silent.

The tense quiet was broken when Zelda stormed down the stairs and stalked furiously into the kitchen, wearing nothing but her kimono and with her hair dripping wet. “What,” she hissed through clenched teeth, “did you _say_ to her? Tell me right now, Miss Fisher, or I _swear_ I’ll—”

But precisely what Zelda would do remained yet another mystery, because as Phryne watched, Zelda began to tilt alarmingly. Phryne was up in an instant to steady her, though it ultimately was no help. The second Phryne had her arms around the pale woman, Zelda’s knees buckled; Phryne was just able to help her over to a kitchen chair. “Do you need a doctor?” Phryne asked. “Should I call for an ambulance?”

Zelda shook her head, her eyes closed. “No, no,” she said, “please don’t. I got a bit...a bit faint. I’ll be fine, I just… need a moment.”

“Does your sister have access to a telephone where she works?” Phryne asked. “Can I at the very least call her?”

“No,” Zelda said. “All she’ll do is worry, and I’ve already been the source of enough grief for several lifetimes.”

“Zelda—”

“I told you no!” Zelda said, her voice rising shrilly. “ _What_ is so complicated about that word?”

“Miss?” Dot said, hovering anxiously in the kitchen doorway. “Is everything alright? We heard shouting.”

“Yes, Dot, everything is fine,” Phryne said tiredly, beginning to loathe the word _fine_ with every fibre of her being. “Can you take Jane to the market for a little while, please?”

“For… what, miss?” Dot asked. “Do you need something?”

“Dot,” Phryne said, trying to sound more patient than she felt, “find a reason; I just need her out of the house for a spell. I don’t care _what_ you tell her; make something up if you must.”

Understanding lit Dot’s eyes. “Yes, miss,” she said. “We’ll be back in a while.”

Phryne waited until she was certain that Dot and Jane were out of the house and down the block before she spoke again. She turned to Zelda, who was frozen in her chair, staring off into the middle-distance as though in a trance. “Zelda,” Phryne said, “you are not going to want to answer them, but I have a few questions that I absolutely have to ask you.”

* * *

Some time later, they sat again on the chaise in the parlor. Phryne had made Zelda a cup of lemon balm tea, and wrapped her up in a wool blanket when she couldn’t stop shivering. She seemed steadier on her feet, and her gaze no longer possessed that terrifying, cloudy blankness, though any improvements in her mood were marginal at best. “You’re not at all well, are you?” Phryne murmured, almost to herself. She wished she could brush the damp hair off of the woman’s face, but didn’t want to startle her.

Zelda took a drink of her steaming tea and winced when it burned her tongue. “You said you have questions,” she said quietly.

“Are you feeling strong enough to answer them?” Phryne asked.

“No,” Zelda admitted, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders, “but I shall answer them anyway.”

Again, she fought off that urge to put a warm hand on the woman’s arm, to rub her back, anything to bring some modicum of comfort into this fragile creature’s painful life. Instead, she spoke as gently as possible. “Sabrina told me that you were still awake when Faustus got home from the party, and so did you, a few days ago, whether you intended to or not,” Phryne said, deciding that the best way out was quickly through. “But you told Inspector Robinson that you took a pill and slept through Faustus’s return. So which one is true?”

Zelda shut her eyes. “The former,” she whispered.

Phryne nodded. “I thought as much,” she said. “Zelda, did he beat you that night? After the party?”

Zelda twisted the hem of her kimono in her fists as tears seeped from beneath her lavender eyelids. “Yes,” she said, her breath trembling. 

“Zelda,” Phryne said softly, carefully taking the other woman’s hand in her own, “did you do something? To make him stop?”

Zelda continued twisting the fabric in her unoccupied hand with such vehemence that Phryne began to worry it would rip. “I don’t know,” she said, stricken. “I can’t… remember, I’d had so much whisky and then later the sleeping pill, and I don’t—I can’t—I don’t _know_ —” here, her voice hitched on a sob, and then she began to cry in earnest.

Phryne, acting on instinct, wrapped Zelda in her arms; rather than protesting, she simply buried her face into Phryne’s shoulder. She cried with loud, messy abandon, dampening the satin of Phryne’s pyjamas. She cried until her nose was running and her voice began to grow hoarse. Phryne said nothing, as she wasn’t even sure Zelda could register words at the moment; she simply rubbed soothing circles on Zelda’s shoulder blades until she finally began to calm. 

She lifted her swollen, tear-stained face from Phryne’s shoulder. “You believe me, don’t you?” she asked. “I… I remember Faustus hitting me, again and again, no matter how much I begged him to stop, and then it’s nothing but… but blackness until the next morning.”

“I believe you,” Phryne said.

The strange thing was, she really, truly did. It wouldn’t have been a difficult tale to invent—Faustus certainly had hit her in the past, so it wasn’t such a stretch to assume he’d done it the night he’d died—and Phryne knew of cases of people under extreme duress experiencing memory loss. Her story was almost too perfectly convenient, and were it anyone else Phryne would suspect they were deliberately obfuscating the truth. But when Phryne looked into Zelda’s eyes, she didn’t see the smug certainty that she was getting away with something; she saw only sadness and sheer, awful terror.

“I believe you,” Phryne repeated, and held the woman even tighter.

* * *

“What are you thinking?”

Phryne was paying Jack a visit down at the station. She’d passed on most of what she’d been told by Sabrina and Zelda, though she’d very deliberately excluded Zelda’s near confession to manslaughter. What Jack didn’t know couldn’t hurt him, she supposed, and it wasn’t as though Zelda was even certain about what happened herself. A _most_ tiresome voice in the back of Phryne’s mind kept insisting that obscuring that particular nugget of information would only cause problems later, but Phryne Fisher was--if nothing else--an expert problem solver.

Jack pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned. “That I need a drink,” he answered. “Christ, this case is a complete mess.”

Phryne hummed her agreement from her perch on the edge of Jack’s desk. “I feel rather the same way,” she said. 

“What are _you_ thinking, Miss Fisher?”

Phryne made a noise in the back of her throat. “I’m thinking,” she said, with more than a bit of dark humor, “that the more I learn about Faustus Blackwood, the less I seem to care about uncovering the truth behind his demise.”

Jack gave Phryne a look whose meaning she couldn’t quite discern. “You and I both know the law doesn’t operate according to our whims and opinions, Miss Fisher,” he said carefully. “We cannot go around doling out vigilante justice against people we view as wrongdoers.”

Phryne scowled. “What about the Zelda Spellmans of the world, Jack?” she asked. “What, pray tell, is the law doing for her, and for all the women like her?” 

Jack bristled. “Most men,” he said, “are nothing at all like Faustus Blackwood.”

“More men are like Faustus Blackwood than you think,” Phryne shot back. When Jack deflated slightly, Phryne sighed and took his hand in one of her own. “Jack,” she said gently, “just because _you_ are too noble to ever raise your hand to a woman in anger doesn’t mean all men possess the same code of ethics.” She pushed a loose curl back from his forehead. “Don’t let your good heart blind you to the uglier realities of the world.”

“I am not so naive as you seem to think, Miss Fisher,” Jack said dryly, and Phryne smiled.

“Is it really that awful?” she asked. “Being so kind that you can’t fathom this particularly hideous sort of cruelty?”

“It is when you’ve devoted your life and career to ridding the world of the scourge of crime,” Jack said

“Silly Jack,” Phryne said. “You don’t have to understand someone to bring them to justice.” She nudged Jack with her foot. “So what happens now?”

Jack sighed. “I’ll need to track down Hilda Spellman and have a conversation with her,” he said, “given that she lied the first time around.”

“Might I come with you?” Phryne asked innocently. “I promise not to interrupt.”

Jack rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and prayed for patience. “Miss Fisher,” he said. “Please, please don’t make a promise you can’t keep.”

* * *

Hilda Spellman, as it turned out, worked as a clerk at a pretty little bookstore located in the center of town. She was restocking shelves when Jack and Phryne walked in; they’d apparently arrived during a lull, and the only other customer present was an older gentleman browsing through the poetry section.

“Miss Spellman,” Jack greeted. 

Hilda eyed him warily. “I’m assuming,” she said, “that you’re not here to buy any books.”

“You assume correctly,” Jack said mildly. “Is there a room where we might be able to talk privately?”

Hilda nodded. She went to the counter, where a dark-haired man was working at the register. She whispered something to him, and he glanced over at Phryne and Jack uncertainly. Hilda squeezed his hand and pressed a kiss to his temple, which seemed to soothe him somewhat. 

“Come this way,” Hilda said, and led them towards the back of the store. 

She took them to what seemed to be a stockroom, though there was a small table and a few chairs clustered towards the middle of the floor. Hilda sat down and gestured for them to do the same. “Let’s get right to it then,” she said, her eyes steely. “What do you want?”

“I want to know why you lied about your whereabouts the night of Faustus Blackwood’s death,” Jack answered. “You told me that you were at your home, but your sister and your niece both confirmed to Miss Fisher that you visited Lady Blackwood shortly after she returned from her engagement.”

Hilda’s gaze was level. “I didn’t think it was relevant information,” she said.

“Well, clearly you _did_ or else you wouldn’t have hidden it,” Jack said shortly. “But that’s presently beside the point. When did you arrive at the Blackwood residence?”

“Around eleven,” Hilda said, “or thereabouts.”

“And what did you do once you were there?”

Hilda chewed her bottom lip. “I tended to some injuries that Zelda had sustained while she was at her party,” she said carefully. 

“Miss Spellman,” Phryne interrupted smoothly, “let’s not pretend that we none of us know how those injuries came about, hm?”

Hilda flushed. “Zelda doesn’t like _anyone_ talking about that particular facet of her life,” she said. 

“Understandably so,” Phryne said, “but unfortunately we require all the facts in an investigation like this one, including the uglier ones she’d prefer to stay buried.”

Hilda drummed her fingers on the table. “I tended to some injuries that Zelda sustained at Faustus’s hand,” she amended. 

“Did Lord Blackwood himself arrive home at any point while you were present?” Jack asked.

Hilda swallowed. “Yes,” she said, her voice small.

Phryne reached out and held Hilda’s hand. “What happened when Lord Blackwood got there, Hilda?” she asked.

Tears dripped down Hilda’s face and onto her sweater. “He hurt her,” she whispered. 

“Can you walk us through what happened, Miss Spellman?” Jack asked, low and gentle.

Hilda’s account largely matched up with what Phryne had pieced together from what Zelda and Sabrina had told her, though she faltered slightly when she arrived at the altercation’s end. Her pulse fluttered in the hollow of her throat. “Miss Spellman?” Jack prompted. “How did the fight come to its end?”

“I’m not sure I’d really call it a fight,” Phryne said, more waspishly than she’d intended. “ _Fight_ implies that both parties were able to land blows, and I’m quite confident that Faustus Blackwood saw to it that Lady Blackwood was denied that opportunity at every turn.” She turned to Hilda. “Miss Spellman, what happened once Faustus decided that he’d had enough of beating the living daylights out of your sister?”

Hilda blinked at Phryne, then squared her shoulders and sat up a bit straighter. Her mouth was set in a determined line. “He left her there, on the floor,” Hilda said with great disgust, “and then I imagine he went to bed.”

“Though that does still leave the question of how he fell down the stairs conspicuously unanswered,” Jack pointed out.

Hilda pursed her lips. “Faustus was blotto by the time he got home,” she said disdainfully. “He only stopped hitting Zelda because he couldn’t see straight anymore. I’ve no idea how he fell down the bloody stairs; he was probably going to the loo in the night and took a wrong turn.”

“Can anyone confirm from that party confirm that Faustus had been drinking?” Jack asked.

Hilda snorted. “Everyone present, I imagine,” she said, “along with everyone present at every other party Faustus has attended besides.”

“He was fond of the drink, I take it?” Phryne asked.

“If you’re fond of understatements, then yes, he certainly was,” Hilda returned dryly.

“And you’re certain--absolutely _certain_ \--that there’s nothing else you need to tell us about that night?” Jack asked, leaning forward and looking Hilda directly in the eyes. “Anything at all?”

Hilda fidgeted with her skirt’s hem. “No,” she said, “there’s nothing else.”

“Thank you for your time, Miss Spellman,” Jack said, closing his notebook. “I’ll be in touch if I need anything else.” He turned to Phryne expectantly.

“I think I might stay here a while, Jack,” she said. “A few books caught my eye and I’d like a chance to peruse them.”

Jack raised his eyebrows. “That’s why you’re staying behind, is it?” he asked wryly.

Phryne smiled mischievously. “You know me,” she said. “I’m a great lover of literature.”

“I don’t know that I would classify _Lady Chatterley_ as literature, Miss Fisher.”

“Only because _you’re_ too narrow-minded,” Phryne said, though her tone was sweetly teasing. “A shame, really. It’s _most_ delicious. Have _you_ read it, Miss Spellman?” 

Hilda blushed peony pink and looked nervously over at Jack. “I’m not...entirely unfamiliar with it,” she said, and Phryne beamed.

Jack sighed. “I’ll leave you ladies to it, then,” he said, and left.

“Is there a certain genre you’re hoping to read?” Hilda asked. “We have _lots_ of romances, though nothing as saucy as D.H. Lawrence, I’m afraid, and we’ve just gotten a few new volumes of poetry in as well--”

“Miss Spellman,” Phryne said, “there’s something I need you to understand. I very much would like to help you, as well as your niece and your sister. Your safety has, as of late, become a priority of mine.”

Hilda’s brow furrowed. “That’s very...kind...of you,” she said, “though I don’t know exactly why--”

“Inspector Robinson,” Phryne continued, and Hilda fell quiet, “is an intelligent man and an excellent detective. He wants to help you as well, I’m sure, but his...ethical code is regrettably rather black and white. He sees a crime as a crime, regardless of why it was committed. I, however, believe strongly in the existence of grey areas, particularly when it comes to violence committed against women.”

“Miss Fisher--” Hilda said nervously, but Phryne shook her head.

“I need you to tell me what really happened to Faustus Blackwood,” Phryne said, “because that is the only way I can ensure that when this case comes to its end, you and your sister remain entirely guilt free."

Hilda stared at Phryne, weighing something. “How can I be sure that I can trust you?” she finally asked.

“I suppose you can’t be sure,” Phryne admitted.

“Do you know what?” Hilda asked. “I think that’s the first time someone has said anything remotely straightforward to me since all this awfulness began.” She stood up and locked the door to the stockroom. “Alright,” she said. “Here’s what you need to know.”


	4. simply a matter of when

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we finally know precisely whodunnit, Jack and Phryne have an argument, and Zelda is more ill than she wants to let on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIRST OF ALL I need to thank EarthboundCosmonaut and cjscullyjanewaygay for all of their help beta'ing this massive chapter. It truly would not exist were it not for the two of them. I am so lucky that they've decided to use some of their brilliant writing expertise to help me with this.
> 
> A note on a small change I've made: in the first chapter, Hilda initially told Phryne that they'd lived in London, then the U.S., before moving to Australia. But I've changed it to them having only ever lived in London, just because Greendale isn't going to be relevant to this fic and it made certain plot points easier to handle.
> 
> I honestly cannot remember how clear they made this in the show, but in the Phryne Fisher books her family moved from Melbourne to London when she was about 11, just after her father inherited a position and a huge amount of money. I'm operating under that bit of canon as I write this fic.
> 
> I know it's been a while since I last updated, but this chapter was difficult to write. Hopefully it's worth the wait!

_“Careful!” Zelda moves out of her sister’s reach, and Hilda huffs._

_“I’m being gentle as I can, Zelda, but these need to be taken care of, and to do that I’m afraid I have to touch you,” Hilda says._

_“Fine,” Zelda says. “And do not_ say it, _Hilda.”_

_“I’m not saying anything—”_

_“I can hear you thinking it.”_

_“Zelds—”_

“Don’t.”

_Hilda sighs and continues applying salve to the abrasions on her sister’s neck. She manages to wait a frankly impressive five minutes before speaking again: “I just think that you’d be so much better off if you weren’t married to him. That’s all.”_

_Zelda stares straight ahead, her jaw clenched, the small muscles working in her cheeks as she swallows. Hilda plows on. “I can’t see why you don’t divorce him, Zelda; you and Sabrina always have a place with me, you know that—”_

_“I told you,” Zelda says, “that I did not wish to discuss it.”_

_“Well I do!” Hilda explodes. “We_ need _to discuss it, Zelds! This isn’t just happening to you; it’s also happening to me, to Ambrose, to Sabrina. I hardly sleep through the night anymore, I’m so worried about you.”_

_“Well, I can assure you I’m not sleeping any better, sister…!”_

_“I’m watching you fade away right in front of me, Zelds,” Hilda says, tears filling her eyes, “and there’s nothing I can do to help because you won’t let me, and one day I’m going to wake up and you’ll—you’ll be gone, and I—”_

_“Stop it, Hilda, I mean it.”_

_“And I don’t see why you won’t just leave him!” Hilda finishes._

_“Because he would kill me, Hilda!” Zelda snaps, pushing her sister’s hand away. “If I leave him, he will kill me. It is as simple as that.”_

_“He’s going to kill you anyway,” Hilda blurts, and she flushes with shame when she sees Zelda flinch at the sharpness in her tone, “if things keep on as they are.” She softens and squeezes Zelda’s hand. “Life can’t go on this way, Zelda. It can’t. It can’t be sustained.”_

_A shudder passes through Zelda’s body. “All of this has occurred to me, Hilda,” she says. “Do you really think I haven’t laid awake night after night, weighing my options, trying to decide which one leaves the fewest casualties? The option that leaves Sabrina unharmed and alive? The option that doesn’t end with me or you or all of us hopelessly and utterly destroyed?”_

_“Zelda,” Hilda whispers, a plea. She continues to tend to Zelda, neither of them speaking. Hilda wracks her brain, searching for the right words, but every time she seems to find them they get stuck behind the bitter knot in her throat. Zelda’s eyes are glossy and distant, and Hilda tries her best to disguise how terribly her hands shake when faced with that awful, vacant stare._

_“Hilda,” Zelda suddenly says, “if I tell you something, will you promise that you will tell absolutely no one?”_

_“Zelds, you know I won’t—”_

_“I need you to promise me,” Zelda says, her breath coming in short, sharp pants. “Promise me that you will tell nobody.”_

_Pinpricks of fear blossom on Hilda’s skin at the urgency in Zelda’s voice. “I promise,” she says._

_“Do you recall a few weekends ago,” Zelda said, picking her cuticles as she spoke, “when I told you I was taking the train to Ballarat, to visit the Merricks? That was not entirely true.”_

_Hilda’s brow furrows. “So… you didn’t go to Ballarat?” she asks. “I’m sorry, I just don’t quite see why—”_

_“I did go to Ballarat,” Zelda says, “it was my purpose for going that I… obscured. There was a… a medical procedure that I required that could only be completed by a particular physician.”_

_Hilda’s eyes widen with alarm. “You’re frightening me,” she says. “Are you ill? What sort of procedure?”_

_Zelda shakes her head and presses her fingers to her mouth. “It was very early stages,” she whispers, trembling._

_Hilda grabs Zelda’s hands and holds them tight. “What was very early stages? Zelda, I don’t understand—”_

_“Please don’t make me say it, Hildy,” Zelda says, and something deep within Hilda freezes when Zelda’s hands move to cradle her abdomen._

_“Zelda,” Hilda says slowly, “are you… were you pregnant?”_

_Zelda turns her grief-stricken gaze onto her sister, and her silence is its own bleak confirmation._

_“Did you,” Hilda says, feeling as though she might be sick, but still needing to hear the words spoken aloud, “did you get an abortion?”_

_In her shock her volume is louder than she’d intended. Seconds after the words leave her mouth, the front door slams. Any remaining color promptly drains from Zelda’s face. Hilda can see the feverish flutter of her pulse in the muscles of her neck. “Faustus,” Zelda says, grim and certain. “You need to leave, Hilda._ Now.”

_“Did he hear us?” Hilda asks, her whisper shrill with panic._

_“I don’t know, but you must leave.”_

_“No, Zelda—!”_

_“He will hurt you—!”_

_“He’ll hurt_ you!” _Hilda says, face blazing. “I’m not leaving you alone to be murdered in your own home.”_

_“Then hide in the wardrobe,” Zelda hisses. “But he cannot see you here!”_

_Hilda has just managed to wedge herself in behind a curtain of Zelda’s dresses when the bedroom door opens. She can hear the quiet, frightened hitch of Zelda’s breath and the laborious rasp of Faustus’s. For an unsettlingly long moment, neither of them say anything at all._

_And then comes his voice, an animal growl: “You bitch.”_

* * *

“I didn’t—I didn’t mean to… to _kill_ him,” Hilda said, her eyes not meeting Phryne’s. Tears ran in thick tracks down her cheeks. “He… he was—the way he was h-hitting her, Miss Fisher, it—it was the most _horrible_ thing. I knew that he… that he did it of course, but it was— _seeing_ it was so much worse than I’d ever imagined. She was crying out like… like I’ve _never_ heard Zelds do before in all my life, until then she… she wasn’t anymore. And I thought… I was afraid that—I thought—” but she cut herself off with her own wracking sob.

“How did you do it, Hilda?” Phryne breathed, by this point nearly in tears herself.

Hilda swallowed. “Zelda keeps this… this bronze figurine of a woman’s silhouette on her dressing table. It’s not large but it’s quite heavy, and I snuck out of the wardrobe, picked it up, and… and I hit him on the back of his head, like this,” she said, demonstrating. “I only wanted to make him stop, but I think he must have been moving at… at precisely the wrong time, because his neck—his neck snapped forward and made the most _vile_ sound.” 

She leaned forward and rested her head in her hands. “He sort of… collapsed onto the carpet. His neck was at such an unnatural angle, and there was a bit of blood coming out his nose, and it was so silent, until Zelda—she sat up and started _screaming_ , and—” she stopped, her face a pale green. 

Having seen enough confessions to sense what was about to transpire, Phryne quickly stood and grabbed a metal cleaning bucket from the back corner of the room. She put it in Hilda’s lap just in time for Hilda to be violently ill into it.

“I am… so sorry,” Hilda managed between dry-heaves, but Phryne shook her head and rubbed Hilda’s back. 

“Don’t you dare apologize,” Phryne said firmly. “I don’t blame you a bit for being sick. Darling, _I_ am so sorry that all of this has happened to you and your sister.”

When Hilda was finished she set the bucket down on the floor and wiped her mouth on her handkerchief. “Would it be alright if I asked you one more thing?” Phryne asked, and Hilda nodded. “How did he end up at the foot of the stairs?”

“We dragged his body from the bedroom and pushed it down them,” Hilda answered. “We thought it might look enough like an accident…” She trailed off.

Phryne nodded. It made sense to her. Enough sense even that they might have gotten away with it if Faustus hadn’t been such a prominent local figure, but Phryne knew that Jack’s investigation was already being heavily scrutinized. Only that morning there’d been an article in the paper arguing that outside personnel might need to be brought in to review the case. There was too much pressure to name a culprit, and naming Zelda, or Hilda, or both, as the responsible party would be easy. It was not a matter of if it would happen; it was simply a matter of when.

“Miss Fisher?” Hilda said, shaking Phryne from her reverie. “Should—should I be scared?” She laughed softly as she wiped her tears with a handkerchief. “I’m sure that sounds like a very silly question after all this, doesn’t it?”

“It doesn’t sound silly at all,” Phryne said. “Would you like my honest answer, Miss Spellman?”

Hilda paled slightly but nodded nonetheless. Phryne sighed. “I don’t believe fear has ever done anyone good in a crisis,” she said, “but I do think you should be wary. First things first: does your fiancé know anything about what happened?” 

“No,” Hilda said. “Should I tell him?”

“Not yet,” Phryne said. “The fewer people who know, the better. Do you think you’ll be able to keep it a secret from him?”

“I’ve managed it this long, haven’t I?” Hilda said, smiling feebly.

Phryne did not find that particularly reassuring, but chose not to comment. “You’ll need to go straight home from work every day,” Phryne continued. “No dawdling. Talk to no one besides your immediate family, your fiancé, Jack, and myself. If another constable wishes to speak with you, refuse to do so unless you have a solicitor present.”

“Won’t that make me look suspicious?” Hilda asked.

“No, it will make you look sensible,” Phryne said. “There’s also something that I need you to do for me.” 

“Of course,” Hilda said, “anything; just say the word, Miss Fisher.”

“I need you to tell me everything that you know about Faustus,” Phryne said. “His friends, any work colleagues, the clubs he frequented, his bad habits, the opinions people held of him. Anything might be helpful, so leave nothing out.”

Hilda blinked. “Yes, I can do that,” she said, “but… may I ask why?”

“Because it’s not a matter of making you and Zelda appear innocent, Hilda,” Phryne said. “It’s a matter of making it appear as though someone else had reason enough to be guilty.”

* * *

“I want to know who you’re interviewing next.”

Jack sighed and began to mop up the coffee he’d spilled when Phryne had thrown open his office door. “Do you ever knock, Miss Fisher?” he asked.

“Very rarely,” Phryne said. “Who are you interviewing next?”

“Why do you need to know?”

“Because I’ll be accompanying you,” Phryne said, seating herself casually on Jack’s desk and crossing her legs. “I thought that was obvious.”

“And what,” Jack asked, “makes you think that you’ll be allowed to accompany me on this bit of high-profile constabulary business?”

“I’m invaluable to this investigation, Jack,” Phryne said. “Half the information you have in this case has either been gathered by me or was given to you only because I was present.”

Jack bristled. “I think that may be a bit of an exaggeration.”

“It most certainly is not,” Phryne said. “If it weren’t for me, you would still be wasting your time fighting to get a statement from Zelda Blackwood. You also wouldn’t have access to her medical records, _and_ you’d have nothing but a false alibi from Hilda Spellman.” 

“Yes, and while those three things have been very helpful, Miss Fisher, there’s plenty of good work that I’ve done when you’ve not been present,” Jack said. “I assure you, Collins and I do not spend our days sitting here at the station and twiddling our thumbs, counting down the minutes until you decide to grace us with your presence.”

“There’s no need to be rude, Jack,” Phryne said. “I was merely pointing out—”

“That you think this case would be unsolvable were it not for you,” Jack interrupted, “which is not true.”

“Perhaps if you would let me _speak_ ,” Phryne snapped, “I would be able to explain myself adequately.” She had leaned in closer to him. She had a look in her eyes like the moment just before she floored the gas pedal. Jack had the wisdom and decency to look chagrined, and nodded for Phryne to continue. “I simply think that I have a particular intuition regarding the contents of this investigation that you and Constable Collins lack. That’s all.”

Jack studied her carefully for a moment. “Would you like to know what I think?” he asked.

“Not particularly, no.”

Jack ignored her. “You’ve become too emotionally involved in this case,” he said.

Phryne scowled. “I have _not_ ,” she said.

“Collins told me that Lady Blackwood and her little niece—”

“Her name is Sabrina.”

“That she and Sabrina are staying with you,” Jack continued. “You’re worried about them, and it’s clouding your judgment.”

Phryne narrowed her eyes and hopped down from Jack’s desk. “How funny,” she said coolly. “I don’t seem to recall you having these concerns when it was _you_ investigating Commissioner Sanderson.”

Phryne was pleased to see the redness that crept up Jack’s neck. “That,” he said, “was different.”

“You’re right. It was,” Phryne said. “If anything it was an even greater conflict of interests, given that he’s the _father_ of your _ex-wife_!”

“I’m able to do the necessary work of… detaching myself from a personal connection to a case, Miss Fisher.”

“Oh, and I’m not?”

“Well, no—but please let me explain,” Jack said hurriedly when Phryne’s cheeks turned an angry shade of scarlet. “Your personal connection to this case goes beyond simply knowing the people involved. Your own past, your own history, they’re influencing you as well, and I don’t want to see you hurt or the investigation hobbled because of it.”

Phryne could hear her heartbeat in her ears. “What happened between René and myself,” she said, “was completely different.” She appraised Jack. Her gaze was level, but her eyes were shining. “Would you like to know what _I_ think?”

“Miss Fisher—”

“You see these similarities so glaringly because Zelda is a woman, and so am I,” Phryne said, “and that’s not going to change, no matter what I tell you.” 

Jack shuffled a stack of papers on his desk and remained silent. Phryne pushed back the angry, traitorous tears that threatened to spring to her eyes. “You’ve always had your share of faults, Jack,” Phryne said, “just as I do. But never—never _once_ —did I think you valued me any less as a colleague or a companion because of my gender.”

Jack offered her a pained look. “I never said that I don’t value you, Miss Fisher,” he said. “That’s not what this is at all.”

“No,” Phryne murmured, “but you didn’t have to.” She drew herself up to her full height and glared at Jack. “I am coming with you,” she said, “regardless of whether or not I have been invited. If you do not let me participate in an interview, I will find a way to talk to the subject without you present. Am I being quite clear?”

Jack had the good sense not to argue. Instead he stood, grabbed his coat and hat, and gestured for Phryne to follow him out of his office.

* * *

The drive to the Blackwood home was silent. Phryne spent it absorbed in her own thoughts and found herself startled when the car slowed to a stop in front of the house. Jack pressed the starter and the car grumbled as it turned off. He ran a hand through his hair. “If you’re going to join me,” he said, “we’ll need to set some parameters.”

“Fine,” Phryne said.

“You’re not to interrupt me,” Jack said, “nor are you to contradict me. If I move on to a different subject, it is because I’ve decided that’s the best course of action.”

“Anything else?” Phryne asked frostily.

“Yes,” Jack said, then hesitated. “I would like to… apologize, for earlier. It was unfair of me to accuse you of being anything less than the top-notch investigator you’ve proven yourself to be. I hope you can forgive me.”

“Thank you, Jack,” Phryne said, face brightening in spite of herself. “Your apology is noted and appreciated,” she added curtly, opening her car door and stepping out onto the pavement. “Coming?”

A pale, mousy young woman in a maid’s uniform answered the front door. “Hello,” Jack said, flashing his badge. “I’m Detective Inspector Robinson, and this is the Honourable Phryne Fisher. We’re here to speak with Ellen Davies. Is she in?”

“Yes sir,” the maid said, “I’ll show you to the parlor and then I’ll fetch her.”

“Who’s Ellen Davies?” Phryne asked sotto-voce as they settled themselves on a stiff, dark purple sofa.

“The governess,” Jack said. “I thought she’d have valuable insight into their family dynamics.”

“I briefly had a governess,” Phryne said, “when Father inherited his position and we first moved to London.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Only briefly?” he said. “Gave her hell, did you?”

“Naturally,” Phryne said. “I’d run her off within the month.”

“Excuse me,” the maid said from the doorway. “Mrs. Davies to see you, sir.”

Ellen Davies wore a drab navy dress and her grey hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her cheekbones were sharp and her eyes pale blue and shrewd. She looked Jack and Phryne up and down with thinly-veiled disdain. “May I help you?” she asked.

Jack stood. “Detective Inspector Robinson,” he said, extending a hand. “We’re here to ask you a few questions about Lord Blackwood, if now is a convenient time.”

“I suppose now is as convenient a time as any,” Mrs. Davies said with a put-upon sigh, and maneuvered around him to sit in an armchair across from the sofa.

“May we speak here?” Jack asked. “Or is there another room where you’d be more comfortable?”

“This is satisfactory,” Mrs. Davies said. She turned her fishy eyes on Phryne. “Is there any particular reason,” she said to Jack, “that your… lady companion is joining us for our conversation?”

“I’m assisting Inspector Robinson with his investigation,” Phryne said smoothly before Jack could answer. “I’m Honorary Constable Phryne Fisher,” she added, extending a hand for a shake, though her gesture too was pointedly ignored.

Jack cleared his throat. “Right,” he said, “shall we get on with it?” He opened his notepad to a fresh page. “How long have you known the Blackwood family?”

“I was Master Faustus’s governess when he was a boy,” Mrs. Davies said simply.

“So you knew Lord Blackwood for some time then, yes?” Jack said.

Here, Mrs. Davies brightened. “Oh, yes,” she enthused, “since he was barely five years old. He was such a handsome little boy, and so bright. It nearly broke my heart when he was sent off to school, but of course he needed to go. He’s _always_ been destined for greatness, Master Faustus, I said so for _years_ , but now he’s—” her voice caught in her throat.

“Take your time,” Jack said, offering her his handkerchief. Mrs. Davies shook her head and pulled out her own. “We know how difficult this is for you.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Davies sniffled, dabbing her eyes. She put on what she clearly assumed was a brave smile but looked more like a grimace to Phryne. “You may continue.”

“When did you begin to care for Sabrina Spellman?” Jack asked.

“Three years ago, just after Master Faustus married that—that _woman_.”

“Lady Blackwood, you mean,” Phryne said.

“Yes,” Mrs. Davies said. “Her.”

“Did you and Zelda not get along?” Phryne asked delicately. 

“She was _not_ of Master Faustus’s stature,” she said scornfully. “They knew each other as children. There were other women, _much_ more suitable matches, but after his first wife’s death he only had eyes for _her_. If you ask me,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially, “she only married him for his title.”

Jack made a noncommittal sound and chose not to comment on this particular bit of gossip. “And what were your day-to-day duties in the household?” he asked.

“Nothing out of the ordinary. I was responsible for the girl’s etiquette, music, art, and French lessons. I occasionally took her on outings as well. Lady Blackwood,” she said, sniffing, “preferred to teach Miss Sabrina’s more… rigorous academic content herself, which was perfectly fine with me.”

“Not your cup of tea?” Phryne asked, unable to help herself.

“No,” Mrs. Davies said sourly. “I find it rather distasteful for young women to receive a formal education.”

“Yes, I’m sure you do,” Phryne said lightly, choosing to ignore Jack’s warning glance.

“Did you ever witness any sort of… conflicts within the family? Between Lord and Lady Blackwood, for example?”

“Oh, they bickered quite frequently,” Mrs. Davies said, rolling her eyes. “Lady Blackwood had ideas above her station. Nothing Master Faustus did was _ever_ satisfactory, and she let him know it, make no mistake.”

“And what was the nature of those arguments?” Jack asked.

“What’s the nature of any argument?” Mrs. Davies said. “They would disagree, he would stand firm, and then Lady Blackwood would pout.”

“Did those disagreements ever, to your knowledge, become violent?” Jack asked.

Here, Mrs. Davies’s hackles rose. “Absolutely not,” she said. “Master Faustus would _never_ put his hands on a woman. He had entirely too much honor, not to mention dignity.”  
Jack’s eyebrows rose. “You’re certain?” he asked. “You’re absolutely certain that you never saw him become physically aggressive towards Lady Blackwood?”

Mrs. Davies drummed her fingers against her leg. “I suppose,” she amended, “that it’s _possible_ Master Faustus may have struck her during one or two of their—their _quarrels_ , when pushed far enough. That is though, of course, his right as a husband. And perhaps a necessary one, given Lady Blackwood’s… sour temperament.”

A firm, warning hand on Phryne’s arm was the only thing that kept her from throttling the woman seated opposite her. 

“Let’s go through the night that Lord Blackwood died,” Jack continued. “Did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary?”

“No,” Mrs. Davies said. “I was asleep by the time they returned from their engagement and didn’t wake until the following morning.”

“No loud noises, no unfamiliar voices, no commotion?”

“No, nothing at all like that.”

“What time did you go to bed?” Jack asked.

“Oh, around 9:30 or so,” Mrs. Davies said.

“And where is your bedroom?”

“On the first floor, towards the back of the house.”

“Was anyone else here that night besides you?” Jack asked.

“The maid,” Mrs. Davies said. “Her name is Beatrice. She’s new; a silly, stupid girl. Don’t bother talking to her, she’ll tell you nothing useful. I’ve no patience for her myself. The butler, Mr. Hughes, was here as well. Master Faustus’s batman, Frederick, was out on an errand. Oh, and Sabrina.”

Jack closed his notepad. “Thank you, Mrs. Davies,” he said. “We’ll let you know if we need anything else.”

“Of course, Inspector,” Mrs. Davies simpered. “Might I offer you some tea before you go?”

“Thank you, but no,” Jack said. “I’m afraid I’ve rather a tight schedule.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Davies said, but her smile was decidedly chillier. “Beatrice will see you out.”

“Horrible woman,” Jack said with a mock shudder once they were safely back in the car. “Reminded me of every headmistress I’ve ever known.”

Phryne smiled slightly, still a bit hot under the collar. “She was most unpleasant,” she said evenly.

 _Unpleasant_ , Phryne thought, _but perhaps useful_.

* * *

Dinner at the St. Kilda house that evening was a quiet affair. Phryne, Jane, and Sabrina ate at the kitchen table. Dot was away visiting Hugh, and Zelda had requested that her meal be brought to her room; her cold was worse, or so she said, and she wanted to rest. Jane did her best to elevate the mood with good-humored chatter, but neither Phryne nor Sabrina was feeling especially festive, and she eventually fell silent. 

“May I please be excused?” Sabrina asked. She’d barely touched a thing on her plate. “I want to see if Auntie Zelda is feeling any better.”

“Of course, Sabrina,” Phryne said, smiling slightly. “Would you like Mr. Butler to wrap this up for you and set it aside? You’ve hardly eaten, dear.”

“No thank you,” Sabrina said. “I’m not very hungry.”

“Miss?” Jane asked once Sabrina had left the room. “Are you alright? You seem… very far away.”

Phryne pushed an errant lock of hair behind Jane’s ear. “I’m fine, darling,” she said. “I’ve got a lot on my mind, that’s all.”

“It’s about Lady Blackwood, isn’t it?” Jane said, then blushed. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop this morning, when you were talking to Sabrina, it’s just that you were both quite loud, and—”

“Jane,” Phryne said gently, “it’s fine. I understand.”

“Are they going to be okay?” Jane asked anxiously. “I’m worried about Sabrina, Miss Fisher; she’s so little, and asylums are awful places to live. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

“I know, sweet,” Phryne said. “I promise you I’m doing everything within my power to help them. But I need _you_ to promise _me_ that you’ll try not to fret over it too terribly much. There’s nothing that you can do besides being a friend to Sabrina, which you’re already managing marvelously.”

“I’ll try,” Jane said, then stood. “I’ve some homework I need to do before school on Monday. Will you let me know if you need anything?”

“I will,” Phryne said, patting Jane’s hand, “thank you, sweetheart.”

Phryne poured herself a tumbler of bourbon and retired to the parlor to think. She had entirely too much information to sort through, and at the same time not nearly enough. The governess would be worth a second visit, personality aside. Phryne had a feeling that once you got her talking about her _handsome, brilliant boy_ she might let slip any number of useful bits of gossip. The new maid, too, was a point of interest. Even in the event that she _was_ as stupid as Mrs. Davies had insisted, maids saw and heard everything. Phryne couldn’t imagine a young woman who had worked for Faustus Blackwood would have anything positive to say about his character.

From inside her trouser pocket, Phryne retrieved the list Hilda had made for her when they were at the bookstore. It felt like that had been days ago rather than hours. Hilda’s primary point of concern regarding her late in-law was opium. She knew Faustus had been a regular at several high-end dens when they’d still lived in London, and she was fairly certain he had kept the habit up following their move to Melbourne. 

Moreover, she had reason to suspect he’d gotten himself involved in trading it as well. Hilda had written down some names she thought might be relevant with regard to that line of inquiry, including—decidedly not to Phryne’s surprise—a few notable local politicians. More intriguing was the inclusion of the Imperial Club. If a club made part of its income through prostitution, though, Phryne supposed it wasn’t such a stretch that they might also be involved in drug trafficking.

How much, Phryne wondered, had Zelda known about her husband’s private affairs? It was a question she’d been asking herself all afternoon. How implicated would she be in the likely event that his entanglements came to light? Zelda seemed entirely too sensible, or at least too concerned for Sabrina’s welfare, to get herself wrapped up in a business as dirty as the opium trade. Though that, of course, was assuming her hypothetical involvement was a choice. Based on what little she knew of Faustus, it seemed unlikely that Zelda had been given many options in their shared life. 

Phryne leaned her head back against the chaise’s cushions and sighed. She held her tumbler up to her temple, relishing the sensation of the cool, perspiring glass on her skin. She wished she could call Jack but knew that would be unwise, at least until she had formulated anything resembling a plan. In the interim, that made Jack—for the first time since she’d met him—closer to enemy than ally. It was a most uncomfortable sensation.

Phryne Fisher was not overwhelmed often, but as she drained her bourbon and tried to shake the mental image of the bruises she had seen on Zelda Blackwood’s shoulder, she was beginning to feel that she was in over her head.

* * *

It was nearly 10:00pm when Phryne knocked on Zelda’s closed door, a tea tray balanced on her hip. From inside the room, she heard a soft, “come in.”

Zelda was tucked into bed, Sabrina sleeping soundly against Zelda’s shoulder. Zelda was wearing a pair of reading glasses and had a book open on her lap, which she closed once she saw it was Phryne at the door.

“Phryne,” Zelda said, and though her voice was tired, Phryne could detect hints of warmth threaded through it. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“I’ve brought you a bit of pudding, if you’d like it,” Phryne said. 

“Thank you,” Zelda said. “Would you mind setting it over on the dressing table? I shall have some later, I think.”

“We missed you at dinner,” Phryne said, settling herself on the end of the bed. “Are you feeling any better?”

“A little,” Zelda said. While it was entirely possible that she did, to Phryne’s eye she still looked frail and perhaps a bit feverish. The latter was of particular concern, given what she now knew of Zelda’s medical history. 

In her sleep, Sabrina shifted and made small fretting noises. Zelda reached out and petted her hair, and the murmuring stopped almost immediately. A burst of cold fear briefly clutched at Phryne’s abdomen when she thought about the very real possibility of Sabrina being taken away from her aunts. One way or another, the likelihood that Zelda would be deemed fit to continue caring for Sabrina was not good. Phryne thought of Jane, of her life before they found each other on the express to Ballarat, and the fear grew sharp behind her ribs. 

“I talked to your sister today,” Phryne said. 

Zelda’s posture stiffened. “I need to put Sabrina to bed,” she said, nudging the girl awake. 

“Zelda—” Phryne tried, but Zelda shook her head as Sabrina’s eyes fluttered open.

“Not now,” Zelda said firmly. “It can wait until she’s asleep.” She helped Sabrina down from the bed. “Come on, darling, it’s getting late.”

“I had a nightmare,” Sabrina said, yawning and grabbing for Zelda’s hand. “Bad men came and took you and Auntie Hilda away, and then they brought me two other Aunties and said that they were you but they weren’t, and nobody would listen to me when I told them.”

“It was only a bad dream,” Zelda said, the hand not holding Sabrina’s rubbing circles on the child’s shoulders. “That’s all.”

Zelda’s pace was slow and her eyes dull, more reminiscent of a person in pain than a person who was simply tired or under the weather. Phryne privately decided then and there that if Zelda’s condition wasn’t improved in the next day or two she would have Mac make a house call. She’d seen plenty of untreated wounds ravage bodies and minds during the War, and she wasn’t keen to see Zelda succumb to the same fate.

When Zelda returned to the bedroom minutes later, she looked achingly vulnerable in her satin nightgown with her hair loose down her back, and it nearly made Phryne reconsider what she was about to do. But, she reasoned, she knew that no matter how upsetting their conversation might be, there would be far more dire consequences if Phryne wasn’t willing to brave it.

“We need to talk about what happened that night, Zelda,” Phryne said. She reached out for Zelda’s hand, but Zelda pulled away, folding into herself. “I know you don’t remember much of it, and I know you don’t want to talk about it, but it’s important that we do.”

Zelda drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, looking for all the world like an injured bird. “Do you know,” she breathed, “that when I have nightmares about it, I never actually see anything? It’s maddening. I almost wish I did.” She clutched at the blankets, her knuckles white. “I try and try to remember, but the last thing I can see is Hilda sitting on my bed just before he arrived at the house. The only thing that I can reliably recall is the screaming, and I know that it’s mine, but it sounds so unlike me that it could be someone else.” 

Zelda opened her eyes and studied Phryne with brutal clarity. “Has something so horrible ever happened to you,” she said, “that it felt like it split you into two separate selves: the Before and the After?”

“Yes,” Phryne said, “it has.”

The room fell silent. They listened to the night breeze rustling leaves outside the open window.

“I didn’t kill him, did I?” Zelda said. 

“No,” Phryne said quietly, “you didn’t.”

Zelda picked up one of the pillows and pressed her face into it. “What is going to be done to her?” Zelda asked, voice muffled, and she did not need to specify who she meant.

“I don’t know,” Phryne admitted. 

Zelda dropped the pillow. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her hands were shaking. “If anything happens to Hilda,” she said, “I don’t think I will be able to go on without her.” The dispassionate manner with which she gave this announcement made Phryne quite certain it was not an empty threat. 

“You’re scaring me, Zelda,” Phryne said. “Please don’t say things like that.”

Zelda acted as if she hadn’t heard. “Did my sister tell you anything else?”

“She did,” Phryne said. “She also told me about the procedure you underwent, in Ballarat.” She did not quite meet Zelda’s eyes when she added, “The… abortion.”

“I knew what you meant,” Zelda snapped, her expression unreadable. Her gaze was fixed on a point somewhere in the middle distance. “I imagine,” she said, “that you would like to know if the child was wanted or not.”

“Not if that’s something you want to keep private,” Phryne said. “This is not my place to pry, Zelda, and I won’t make you tell me anything that you don’t wish to freely divulge.”  
“It could have been a good thing, I think,” Zelda said, continuing as though Phryne hadn’t spoken. “A baby. I’ve always wanted a baby—my own baby—more than nearly anything in the world. But when I learnt I was pregnant, all I could think about was how the—it would bind me to Faustus forever, and I couldn’t…” She trailed off, tears dripping down her cheeks. She placed her face in her hands and emitted a thin sob. 

“I’ve undergone the same… procedure,” Phryne said, unsure if this confession was at all helpful, but not knowing anything that might be better. “It is not as uncommon as you might think.”

“Tell me, Miss Fisher,” Zelda said without lifting her face from her hands, “have you ever wanted to be a mother?”

Phryne briefly considered lying, but somehow knew Zelda would see through her. “No,” she acknowledged, “I have not.”

“Then we are not the same,” Zelda said.

“Are you—” Phryne began, then faltered, “were you given what you needed to take care of yourself after? Medically, I mean? I’m good friends with a physician, Dr. Elizabeth MacMillan, and I know she’d be happy to help if you need anything.”

Here, Zelda lifted her head. “I am fine,” she interrupted sharply. She smoothed imaginary wrinkles from the blanket, trying—Phryne assumed—to regain her composure. “The doctor who performed the—the surgery was… reputable, at least as far as these things go. I’ve no concerns about my recovery.”

“You did nothing wrong,” Phryne said, cringing when she heard the meaningless platitude leave her mouth. “You were in an impossible situation, Zelda, and forced to make an impossibly difficult choice.”

Zelda lay down and turned so that her back was to Phryne. Sensing that the conversation had run its course, she determined it was time to give her guest some space. She was standing at the threshold when Zelda, so quietly Phryne nearly missed it, said: “Very little that I did when Faustus and I were married, Miss Fisher, felt much at all like a choice to me.”

* * *

When Phryne finally woke the next morning, breakfast was on the table and Dot was knitting as she watched Jane and Sabrina play an animated game of draughts. “Good morning,” Phryne said, smiling, as she leaned against the parlor doorway. “Three of my favorite girls, all in one place. What a lovely start to my day!”

“Good morning, miss,” Dot said. “Can I get you anything?”

“Coffee sounds marvelous, but I’ll get it myself, Dot, never fear,” Phryne said, then glanced around the parlor. “I do believe we’re missing someone. Sabrina, where’s your Aunt Zelda?” 

“She’s still sleeping, I think,” Sabrina said, moving one of her draughts pieces. “I tried to wake her a few hours ago but she said she was too tired.”

“Goodness, it’s nearly 11:30,” Phryne said. “I think I’ll go and see if I can rouse her.”

“She might be short with you,” Sabrina warned. “Jane, it’s your move, go on.”

Phryne laughed. “I think I’m willing to risk a bit of shortness, dear,” she said. “Not to worry.”

Upstairs, she knocked softly on Zelda’s door to announce herself. “Zelda?” she said, peeking into the bedroom. “It’s getting a bit late. Would you care to come join us in the parlor, perhaps for some tea?”

Zelda was curled up in the center of the bed, the covers pulled up to her chin. She groaned quietly, but did not otherwise indicate she registered Phryne’s presence. Phryne walked to the window and opened the curtains. Zelda pulled the blankets over her head as sunlight streamed into the bedroom. 

“Come on, now,” Phryne said briskly, rubbing what she hoped was Zelda’s shoulder, “up you get.”

“I don’t feel very well,” came Zelda’s voice, muffled by the blankets and faintly hoarse.

Phryne frowned. “Your cold?” she asked. “Has it got worse?”

“I don’t know,” Zelda said. “I’m very chilled, and weak.”

Phryne reached out towards Zelda’s forehead, then paused. “Do you mind?” she asked. “I want to see if you’ve a fever.”

Zelda waved her hand in a _go ahead_ gesture, eyes rolling slightly. Phryne palmed Zelda’s cheeks and forehead, then drew back from the heat they radiated. “You’re burning up,” Phryne murmured. “I’m going to get a thermometer so I can take your temperature.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Zelda said faintly. “I know it must be dreadful; I don’t care to know exactly how dreadful.”

“Well, I do,” Phryne said, “so you sit tight and I’ll be back in just a blink.”

Phryne found the thermometer in her medicine cabinet, though was dismayed when she saw how little else she had in the way of medical supplies. She would have to send Dot out to the chemist’s later. 

“Can you open your mouth for me, Zelda?” Phryne asked when she returned to the bedroom, thermometer in hand. 

Zelda complied, and Phryne watched as the mercury began to creep past an acceptable mark. Once the necessary three minutes passed, Phryne removed the instrument and examined it anxiously. “39,” she said. “Zelda, I’m worried this is influenza. It’s certainly not a cold, not with that fever.”

“I’ll be fine,” Zelda said, eyes already falling closed again. “I just need to sleep.”

“You are _not_ fine,” Phryne said, beginning to lose her patience. “You’re ill and you need care, though you certainly seem determined to insist otherwise.”

“You’re not in any position to tell me what I need. I’m not a child,” Zelda said, but her words had no fight in them at all.

“Have it your way,” Phryne said tartly. “I’m going to call Dr. MacMillan. _She_ can take a look at you and tell you what you need. If you won’t listen to me, perhaps you’ll listen to a medical professional instead.”

She half-expected Zelda to continue arguing, but instead she merely shivered and shrugged a listless shoulder. This, somehow, was even worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gross But Fun Fact: what happened to Faustus is called internal decapitation! It happens when a person's head snaps forward with enough force, usually caused by something like severe whiplash from a car accident or (as it happened here) severe blunt force trauma. It is the ligamentous separation of the spinal column from the skull's base. It _is_ possible for humans to survive this injury, but 70% of cases result in instantaneous death. Sorry not sorry about it, Faustus!


	5. tread very, very carefully

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Zelda receives a diagnosis, Phryne and Zelda bond, Sabrina is Zelda's miniature, and Mac knows Phryne better than Phryne knows herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I very much hope all of you are staying healthy and safe and taking care during this violent and fraught and terrifying time 💜
> 
> Thank you to EarthboundCosmonaut and cjscullyjanewaygay for being the best beta readers I could ever hope to have!

“When is the doctor going to get here?”

“I’m not sure, Sabrina,” Phryne said. “Whenever she gets a moment. She’s extremely busy, and this is just a favor she’s doing for me between appointments.”

Sabrina had been following Phryne around like a small, anxious duckling for the better part of an hour, ever since Phryne had contacted Mac at the hospital and asked her to make a housecall for Zelda. Phryne was sympathetic to the child’s worries, but this shadow game was growing tiresome very quickly.

“Can’t you call her again?” Sabrina asked. “Can’t you call her and tell her it’s very important that she come _now_?”

“I _have_ told her it’s very important that she come now,” Phryne said, “so in the meantime we will simply have to wait.”

“I’m no good at waiting,” Sabrina said. “I’m very impatient. Everyone always says so.”

“Well, perhaps this is your chance to improve,” Phryne said.

Phryne walked to the kitchen for more coffee, Sabrina at her heels. “Does Aunt Zelda have influenza?” Sabrina asked. 

“I don’t know,” Phryne said. “I’m not the doctor.”

“People can die from influenza,” Sabrina volunteered. “I was only a baby when everyone was sick from it during the outbreak, but Auntie Hilda told me about what it was like.”

“I am well aware that people can die from influenza, dear,” Phryne said. “I was a nurse during the War.”

“Oh,” Sabrina said softly, and that seemed to quiet her for a few blessed seconds. “What if Aunt Zelda dies?” she asked. “Who will look after me?”

Phryne considered this. “In the very, _very_ unlikely event that your Aunt Zelda dies,” Phryne said, “I suppose your Auntie Hilda would become responsible for your care.”

Sabrina looked at Phryne with abject horror. “You’re not meant to say that,” she whispered. “You’re meant to tell me that I’m being silly and of course that will never happen! Don’t you know _anything_?”

“I have many talents, Sabrina,” Phryne snapped, patience finally worn thin, “but I regret to inform you mind reading is not one of them.”

Sabrina’s lower lip quivered. “You’re _mean_ ,” she said, with great feeling, just before she burst into tears.

Phryne froze, knowing that she should offer some sort of comfort or apology to Sabrina but not sure where to begin. Soothing a crying little girl was not one of her many talents. Luckily for her, it turned out it was one her assistant possessed in spades. Dot quietly stood from the armchair where she’d been knitting as she watched their drama play out and walked over to Sabrina. She put her arm around the girl’s shoulders. “Do you know what?” She took a handkerchief from her dress pocket and bent to dab the tears from Sabrina’s face.

“What?” the little girl asked, sniffling.

“When I was your age,” Dot said, crouching slightly so that she was down at Sabrina’s height, “I worried about absolutely _everything_.”

“Everything?” Sabrina asked dubiously.

“Everything,” Dot said seriously. “Would you like to know what’s always helped me when my worries get too big?”

Sabrina nodded. “Yes, please.”

“I write a list,” Dot said, “of everything on my mind so that the bad thoughts aren’t stuck inside my brain anymore. Would you like to try that with me?”

Sabrina gazed at Dot with a look that could best be described as _pure adoration_. “Yes please,” she said.

The doorbell rang. “That’ll be Mac,” Phryne said, relieved. She mouthed a sincere _thank you_ to Dot on her way to the door.

“Mac—”

“Where is she?” Mac asked, already shrugging out of her coat and handing it to Mr. Butler. “I don’t mean to be rude, Phryne, but I have a rather full day and I very much do not like the sound of her fever.”

“She’s in the guest bedroom,” Phryne said. When she began to follow Mac up the stairs, Mac stopped and gave her a look.

“What?” Phryne asked.

“You don’t really think you’re going to be in the room for my examination, do you?” Mac asked.

“Why not?” Phryne asked, indignant.

“Any number of reasons,” Mac said, adjusting her leather bag on her shoulder, “but most notably there is something called _doctor-patient privilege_ , in case you’ve forgotten.”

“What if she _wants_ me in the room?” Phryne asked.

“Why would a woman who hardly knows you want you to be present during a medical consultation?”

“I wouldn’t say that she hardly knows me, Mac,” Phryne said. “She’s staying with me, after all, and we've become rather… familiar over the past few days.” 

Mac studied Phryne with an expression that Phryne couldn’t quite discern. It felt as though Mac were staring into a part of herself she’d yet to meet. Embarrassed heat crept into Phryne’s cheeks, and she fought a most maddening impulse to fidget like a naughty little girl who’s been brought to the headmistress for a punishment.

“If she asks for you then by all means, you may join us. But until that happens, you’ll wait out in the hall,” Mac said with matter-of-fact finality, and continued her ascent to the guest room.

* * *

“Lady Blackwood?” Mac said, knocking on the guest room door. “My name is Doctor Elizabeth MacMillan. May I come in for a moment?”

There was a beat of silence before Zelda answered. “If I say no,” she said, “will you go away?”

“Yes,” Mac answered. She’d never met this woman, but she decided that she liked her already.

More silence. “You’re lying,” Zelda said, “but you may come in anyway.”

The room was dim despite the bright sunshine outside the window. Zelda Blackwood was buried beneath a veritable mound of blankets, identifiable only by the red hair fanned out on her pillow. Zelda turned her head so her face was angled towards Mac. “What do you want?” she asked.

“Miss Fisher contacted me at the hospital,” Mac said, getting directly to it. “She told me you’re running a high fever.”

Zelda rolled her eyes. “Miss Fisher was exaggerating,” she said. “It’s hardly a fever at all.”

“Might I be the judge of that, Lady Blackwood?” Mac asked. She set her bag down on the foot of the bed and began to look through it.

“I don’t need an examination,” Zelda said, “and please call me… just Zelda, or Miss…Spellman if you prefer.”

“Don’t need an examination,” Mac asked, pulling out her thermometer. “Or don’t _want_ one?”

Zelda scowled in response. Mac sighed and sat down on the bed next to her. “I need you to understand,” Mac said, “that nothing bad will come of receiving a medical examination, but there is plenty of bad that may come of _not_ receiving one.”

“I do not like it,” Zelda said, staring determinedly out the window, “when other people… touch me.”

Mac tilted her head to the side, then nodded. “I will not so much as hold your wrist to take your pulse without your express consent,” she said, “if that helps.”

“Not particularly,” Zelda said, but something in her eyes had softened. “Fine. You may do your exam. It would be silly not to, since Miss Fisher made you come all the way here.” 

“Excellent. Now, open up,” Mac said briskly, then slid the thermometer under Zelda’s tongue. “Hold that steady, sit up, and turn so your back is to me.” She put the stethoscope in her ears and placed its diaphragm between Zelda’s shoulders. “Breathe slowly in and out for me.”

Zelda complied and Mac frowned as she listened, then repositioned. “And again,” she instructed. They went through this process three more times before Mac said, “Your lungs are quite congested.” She checked her watch and removed the thermometer from Zelda’s mouth. “Still 39°,” she murmured. She put three fingers to Zelda’s wrist and measured her pulse. “Do you have any other symptoms? Chest pain? Shortness of breath?”

“A bit of both,” Zelda allowed.

“Is there anything that precipitated your symptoms?” Mac asked. “Have you been ill? Phryne mentioned that you’ve been complaining of a cold, though I will say it’s unusual for a cold to become so serious this quickly. Any recent injuries?”

Zelda curled and uncurled her hands into fists several times before answering. “The night my… late husband died, we had an argument, and at one point it became… physical. He—there were some… some blows that, I think, landed in that general area of my body.” She gestured loosely to her ribcage.

“May I take a look?” Mac asked. 

Zelda nodded, then lifted the bottom of her nightgown until her middle was visible. Enormous bruises in various stages of healing colored the plane of Zelda’s stomach. Horror flitted over Mac’s features for a moment before she regained her usual smooth composure. “You must have been in terrible pain,” Mac said. “Am I the first doctor you’ve seen since your husband did this to you?”

“Yes,” Zelda said. “They’re only bruises, after all. He—I’ve been hurt more seriously than this before and healed just fine.” 

Mac’s eyes flashed. “That bruising,” she said, “is severe enough that it could well be the result of a broken rib, or even several broken ribs. Lie back for me? I need to check. I’ll warn you now, this may hurt.”

Zelda fell against the pillows and closed her eyes. Mac pressed against several spots up and down Zelda’s ribcage until Zelda sharply cried out. “I am sorry,” Mac said sympathetically. “Might I take a look at these other injuries while I’m at it?” 

Zelda nodded. “Turn so your back is to me, please,” Mac instructed, then ran her hands over the scars and abrasions that stretched across Zelda’s fair skin. “These are healing decently, but not as well as I’d like. There’s a balm I can add to your list of prescriptions, though a mixture of lavender and olive oils will do just as nicely. Have you done anything to treat these other bruises?”

“No,” Zelda said. “Should I have done?”

Another glimmer of disquiet behind Mac’s otherwise cool, impassive blue eyes. “Yes,” she said, “but it’s not too late to do so now. At this point, heat will be your best ally; a hot water bottle for no more than 20 minutes on impacted areas will boost circulation and increase blood flow. It should also help loosen tense muscles and relieve any pain you’re still experiencing.”

Mac braced her hands against her thighs and stood. “You can get dressed, Lady—Zelda, your exam is complete. It’s exactly as I suspected: one of your ribs is indeed fractured. It’s irritated your lungs and brought on a mild case of pneumonia.”

“Oh,” Zelda said faintly, pulling her nightdress down and the covers up around her body again. 

“You’re lucky we caught it relatively early,” Mac said as she removed her gloves and returned them to her bag. “ _Nasty_ illness if you let it get too far along without treatment. Ah, and speaking of which: your treatment.” 

“Treatment?” Zelda repeated, staring blankly back at Mac. “You mean, there’s more than what you’ve already instructed me to do?”

“Yes,” Mac said, bemused. “Surely you didn’t think this would improve on its own?”

“I… I suppose not,” Zelda said. “Dr. MacMillan, would it be possible for Miss Fisher to be here while you go over all this? This is just very… a lot to remember, and I thought, perhaps….” 

Zelda trailed off. Mac gazed at her with such incisive, understanding pity that Zelda had to avert her eyes. “Yes,” Mac said. “You stay here. I’ll fetch her.”

Phryne entered the room several steps ahead of Mac, her blue eyes wide. “Pneumonia?” she cried. “Zelda, what on _Earth_ —?”

“Phryne, really,” Zelda said weakly, “I’m perfectly—”

“Don’t you dare,” Mac warned, “say _fine_. You will be, eventually, but right now you are most assuredly _not_ fine.”

“How did you even get pneumonia?” Phryne asked.

“Miss Spellman can explain that later, if she so wishes,” Mac interceded. Zelda gave her a shaky but grateful smile.

“Well, alright,” Phryne said crossly. “At the very least are you going to tell us what’s going to be done about it?”

“Naturally,” Mac said, studying Phryne curiously. “To start, I’m going to write several prescriptions and have them sent to the chemist’s: a cough medicine, an inhaler, and codeine for the pain as needed. The dosage instructions will come with the packages.”

“Beyond that,” Mac continued, ticking things off on her fingers, “you need to be in warm, damp air as often as possible. A humidifier would be ideal, but a steamy bath with eucalyptus oil will also suffice. Cool washcloths will help with fever, but if it goes any higher than 39.5 you’ll need an ice bath. And you must _rest_. I don’t want you out of this bed during the next week unless it’s absolutely necessary. As of right now this can be treated at home, but if you’re not improved when I return one week from today it will be straight to the hospital for you. Is all of that clear?”

Zelda nodded blearily. Phryne took her hand and gave it a quick squeeze. “We’ll have you set right in no time at all,” she said. “I promise.”

Mac cleared her throat. “Miss Fisher,” she said, “may I see you in the hall for a moment?”

* * *

Mac and Phryne relocated to Phryne’s bedroom. Mac shut and locked the door behind them, then sat down at Phryne’s dressing table. She studied Phryne but did not speak. 

“Can I help you?” Phryne asked. 

“What’s the investigation turning up?” Mac asked. “Anything interesting?”

“Plenty,” Phryne said, with a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes.

“Any idea who did it yet?”

“I’ve a few theories,” Phryne said carefully. “Why?”

“Because you don’t need to be a detective to know that Lady Blackwood _didn’t_ do it,” Mac said curtly.

“How can you be so certain?” Phryne asked.

“A woman of her size and weight—with bruises like a boxer and at least one broken rib, no less—pushing a fully grown man down the stairs? The very idea is preposterous,” Mac said. 

“Would you be willing to make a statement to that effect under oath?” Phryne asked.

“Of course I would,” Mac said. “Why? Do you think it will come to that?”

“It’s entirely possible. I’m not counting anything out when it comes to this case,” Phryne said, then stomped her foot. “Why do you keep _looking_ at me like that?”

“How, precisely, am I looking at you, Phryne?”

“Like you know something that I don’t,” Phryne said, exasperated. “You were doing it on the stairs before, too. If you’ve something to share I’d love to hear it, given that this is an extremely time-sensitive case and I’m very much not in the mood for nonsense.”

“It’s not to do with your investigation,” Mac said. 

“Then _what_ the hell—?”

“I worry,” Mac said, “that your… companionship with Miss Spellman is beginning to edge into a… potentially dangerous territory, and—for you, at least—it would be an uncharted one.”

Phryne rolled her eyes. “Don’t be absurd,” she said. “She’s a friend, Mac, that’s all. She’s a friend who wants for warmth and care and comfort, and I have all three to give. It’s nothing so _serious_ as what you’re implying.”

“Phryne,” Mac said, with no small bit of affection, “I have been your friend for many years now, and I can say with utmost certainty that you’ve never once looked at me—or any woman I’ve seen you interact with—in the way I just saw you look at Miss Spellman.”

“You’ve never needed me in the same way that she needs me; no one has,” Phryne retorted after a moment of stunned silence.

“No, I haven’t,” Mac said, though Phryne could see she remained unconvinced. 

“I can hear you thinking,” Phryne said, only caring a little that she sounded like a petulant child. “It’s most irritating.”

“There would be nothing wrong with harboring those feelings, you know,” Mac said delicately. “And under different circumstances or with some time, there would be nothing wrong with acting on them, either.”

“Of course there would be nothing _wrong_ with it,” Phryne said impatiently, crossing her arms, “but that doesn’t mean I feel that— _that_ way.” 

Mac smiled. It was sad and fond in turns. “It is endlessly fascinating to me, I must admit,” she said, “that a person as open-minded and sexually liberated as you are, Phryne, can at the same time be so blind to what’s directly in front of them.”

“Mac,” Phryne sighed, “it’s not that I’m _blind_ ; it’s that there’s nothing for me to see. Really.”

“I could very well be wrong,” Mac allowed, “though I do have a rather robust frame of reference.” Her mouth twitched, and then she stood from the dressing table and walked to the door. Just before she unlocked it, Mac paused. “I think you should tread very, very carefully, Phryne,” she said.

With those parting words she disappeared down the hallway, leaving a speechless Phryne Fisher to blink at the empty air.

* * *

Now that Mac had confirmed that Zelda was in fact ill, it seemed she was finally allowing herself to look as miserable as she felt. Phryne was glad; not that Zelda felt poorly, of course, but that she no longer felt compelled to wear a brave face. She’d been forced to be brave for far too long, and she deserved a chance to be consoled and looked after.

“Poor Zelda,” Phryne said with an exaggerated pout, hoping to make Zelda laugh.

Zelda didn’t laugh, but she did look slightly less strained as she coughed into her elbow. “Poor me,” she croaked, mirroring Phryne’s pout. 

“I’ve sent Dot to the chemist for your prescriptions,” Phryne said, “and a few other items Mac recommended we have on hand. Do you need anything else?”

“Will you sit with me?” Zelda asked, hopeful and shy. “A bit of company would do me good, I think, and I feel as though you know so much about me and I know so little about you.”

“I’d _love_ to sit with you,” Phryne said, pulling a chair up beside the bed. “Ask me anything you’d like: I’m an open book.”

Zelda adjusted herself against the stack of pillows. “I’m curious about your childhood,” she said. “Where did you grow up?”

“Here in Melbourne, for the first part of my childhood anyway,” Phryne said. “We were poor as church mice but happy, more or less. Then when I was about 12, the three men who stood between my father and his title died in very quick succession. We were put on an enormous ocean liner headed to England and dropped straight into the lap of luxury.”

“That must have been quite the change.”

“Yes,” Phryne said absently. “I’m afraid I didn’t like it so much, at least not back then. I was accustomed to a certain amount of freedom, you see, and I wasn’t at all pleased when it was taken from me.”

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” Zelda asked. 

“A sister,” Phryne said quietly. “Janey. But she died when we were children, not long before Father inherited his title.”

“Oh, Phryne,” Zelda said, “I’m so sorry. How did she—” Zelda began, then blushed and quieted.

“How did she die, you mean?” Phryne prompted gently. 

“You don’t have to explain; it was much too forward of me to ask,” Zelda said, but Phryne shook her head.

“I don’t mind. Janey, she—” she paused for a deep breath, “she was murdered by a man called Murdoch Foyle. We were visiting the circus, and I was meant to watch over her but I was so dazzled and I wasn’t paying enough attention, and he just… led her away.” She wiped away a few tears that had escaped down her cheeks. “Sorry, it still sometimes has a tendency to sneak up on me.”

“Don’t apologize,” Zelda said emphatically. “I’ve lost a sibling too; I know how painful it can be.”

“Your brother, Hilda said,” Phryne supplied, and Zelda nodded.

“It will be ten years this April, since he passed. It was a car crash,” she added, before Phryne had a chance to inquire. “Edward and his wife Diana—Sabrina’s mother—were driving home after a weekend away and Edward fell asleep. They veered off the road and hit a tree.”

“How dreadful,” Phryne said. “Does Sabrina remember them at all?”

“No, she was barely six months old at the time,” Zelda said. “Hilda and I are the only mothers she’s ever known.”

They fell silent, and for a few minutes the faint wheeze of Zelda’s breathing was the only noise in the room. “And you?” Phryne asked, hoping to steer the conversation to a lighter topic. “Where did you spend your childhood?”

“We grew up in Oxfordshire,” Zelda said. “My father was the manager of the Blackwood estate, so I’ve known--knew--Faustus for my entire life. We were playmates, actually, when we were all children. He was Edward’s age—three years older than myself—but we got along marvelously.” She smiled a sad, private sort of smile. “We were always getting into terrible trouble for the mischief we caused.”

Phryne laughed. “I’m afraid I can’t imagine you causing mischief,” she said.

“I was an absolute hellion, Phryne,” Zelda said gravely, but her eyes sparkled. “I was always tearing holes in my stockings and climbing trees and trying to ride the most difficult horses. We were quite the trio, Edward, Faustus, and I. I was such a willful little thing, and so determined to prove to them that I could run just as fast and climb just as high.” 

“I think you and I would’ve gotten along famously,” Phryne said. “It sounds like it was a lovely childhood.”

“It was,” Zelda said. Pained nostalgia flickered across her features, then was promptly snuffed out. “I’m tired,” she said, stifling a yawn. “Would you mind if I rested for a while?”

“Not at all,” Phryne said. She raised a tentative hand with a mind to push a lock of Zelda’s hair back from her forehead, but at the last moment faltered and dropped her arm to her side awkwardly. 

“Sleep,” she said instead, “and regain your strength. I’ll be here if you need anything; just give a shout.”

Zelda smiled up at her, a genuine smile that felt to Phryne like a secret she had never expected to learn.

Phryne was closing the door behind her when she heard a small, scratchy voice call out: “Thank you, Phryne dear.” As she descended the stairs, she chose not to ask herself why she had blushed a little at the term of endearment.

* * *

Sabrina Spellman was waiting for Phryne at the foot of the stairs, tapping her foot impatiently. “How is she?” she demanded. “I asked that doctor and she said Aunt Zelda’s got pneumonia, but then she left before I could ask her anything else. Will Aunt Zelda be alright? Can I go upstairs and see her?”

“Mr. B,” Phryne said, bypassing Sabrina completely and collapsing onto the parlor’s most comfortable armchair, “I am in _dire_ need of the most tranquil cup of tea you can possibly brew, please.”

“Of course, Miss Fisher,” Mr. Butler said with an understanding smile. 

Sabrina crossed the room until she stood in front of Phryne. She planted her hands on her hips. “I’m not going anywhere until you answer my questions,” she said. “Jane keeps trying to distract me with games, but I’m not stupid and I _won’t_ be distracted. Tell me how my Aunt Zelda is, or I will scream.”

“We’ll have _none_ of that, thank you,” Phryne said sternly. “I will happily answer any questions you have, but you’ll need to give me a moment first. It’s been a trying morning and I’ve a headache. Alright?”

“Fine,” Sabrina said, then sat down on the chaise and primly crossed her legs. “I will wait right here until you’re ready.”

They sat in tense silence for a few minutes. Just as they heard the kettle begin to boil, Phryne considered the girl in front of her and found herself laughing.

Sabrina glowered. “What,” she asked, “is so _funny_?”

“You are remarkably like your Aunt Zelda,” Phryne said. “Has anyone ever told you that before?”

“Yes,” Sabrina said, “but usually only when I’m being difficult, and I don’t think that’s very nice to me or to Aunt Zelda.”

“Well, I happen to mean it as the highest praise,” Phryne said, winking. 

This pacified Sabrina only slightly. She folded her legs up on the chair as if settling in for a lengthy stalemate.

Mr. Butler delivered a steaming cup of tea, which Phryne accepted gratefully. She closed her eyes and took a long sip, sighing happily as the chamomile immediately went to work, the tension beginning to drain from her neck and shoulders. “Alright, Sabrina,” she said with a sigh, “what would you like to know?”

“Is she going to die?” Sabrina asked immediately.

“No, sweet, she’s not,” Phryne said. “Dr. MacMillan is an excellent doctor and she’ll see to it that your Auntie Zelda is back on her feet in no time at all.”

“Is she very, very ill?”

“Pneumonia isn’t something to toy with, certainly,” Phryne acknowledged, “but she should be recovered in, oh, a matter of weeks at most, I think.”

“How did she get it?” Sabrina asked, and suddenly she looked nothing at all like her Aunt Zelda and every inch the frightened, vulnerable, ten-year-old she was.

“Her cold,” Phryne lied smoothly. “It turned into pneumonia.”

Sabrina’s brow furrowed. “Can that really happen so quickly?” she asked.

 _She really is an exceptionally clever child_ , Phryne thought. “Not usually, no,” she said, “but your Aunt Zelda is under a tremendous amount of stress, and sometimes that causes a person to be at a higher risk for contracting certain illnesses.”

Sabrina narrowed her eyes, as if she was still deciding whether or not this was to be believed. “May I go see her?” she asked, evidently settling on cautious belief.

“She’s sleeping now,” Phryne said, “but if you’re very, very quiet you can sit next to her bed and read to yourself until she wakes. How does that sound?”

“That will be fine, I think,” Sabrina said, as prim and authoritative as her aunt Zelda, though she did not move from the chaise. “Miss Fisher?”

“Yes, Sabrina?”

“You’ll keep her safe, won’t you?” she asked, a child once again. “You won’t let anything else happen to her?”

The anxiety radiating off of her was nearly palpable, and Phryne sighed. “As long as she’s under my roof, I promise I’ll keep her safe,” she said, trying hard to sound more confident than she felt. 

Apparently satisfied, Sabrina nodded and bounded up the steps towards the guest room. In the hall, Phryne heard the front door open and then quietly shut. “Dot?” she called.

“Yes, Miss?” Dot said once she was in the parlor doorway. “I’ve picked up Lady Blackwood’s prescriptions.”

“Come in here and sit down,” Phryne said. “I’ve a particularly crafty idea, but I’m afraid I can’t execute it without your expert assistance.”


	6. you're not a constable, are you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dot and Phryne hatch a plan, Hilda has a secret, and Phryne and Zelda share an intimate moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, thank you to cjscullyjanewaygay and EarthboundCosmonaut for being my fearless beta readers! Especially when the chapter in question is nearly 7,000 words long. 
> 
> This is a _long_ chapter, so hopefully the content makes the length worth it!

Phryne, Jack, and Dot pulled up to the Blackwood residence late in the afternoon. “Coming?” Jack asked as his oxfords hit the pavement. Phryne and Dot remained seated, showing no signs they would be joining him.

“We’ll be right behind you, Jack darling,” Phryne said. “I’ve lost an earring and I need Dot’s help searching for it.” Dot seemed suddenly to remember the task at hand and bent to search the floor of the cab.

Jack’s right eyebrow quirked upwards. “Is it really that important to find your _earring_ now, Miss Fisher?” he asked. “You were the one who requested to join me, might I remind you.”

“‘Is it _really_ that important’,” Phryne repeated, scoffing. “Honestly, Jack. You men are all the same. We won’t be but a minute; you go on ahead.” 

Jack gave them one more baffled look and set off towards the front door. Once he was safely out of earshot, Phryne turned to Dot and whispered, “You remember our signal?”

“Yes, Miss Fisher,” Dot whispered back. “Is there something in particular you want me to ask her?”

“Absolutely anything that could paint Faustus Blackwood in a bad light—which is a nigh endless list, I’m sure,” Phryne said. “You’ve been in her position, so you’re at an advantage; be chummy and sisterly and I’ll bet she’ll tell you whatever you want to know.” 

Phryne leaned over and grabbed the earring she’d purposefully dropped on the floor a few minutes into their drive. “Found it!” she cried gayly. “Come along, Dot.”

They made it to the door just as the maid was opening it for Jack. “Good afternoon again,” he said. “We’re here to speak with Mr. Frederick Wright. Is he available?”

“Yes, sir,” the maid said, relaxing slightly when Dot offered her a warm smile. Phryne squeezed Dot’s elbow in a silent gesture of gratitude. 

The maid gestured for them to come inside the foyer. “Wait here, please,” she said, “and I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Frederick Wright,” Phryne said. “Didn’t that awful governess say that he wasn’t even here the night of the accident?”

“Yes, but he’s known Lord Blackwood for years and worked closely alongside him,” Jack said. “He’ll know things that we don’t: for instance, if there was anyone who wished to do Lord Blackwood harm.”

“Though I do wonder how many of those people were harmed by Lord Blackwood first,” Phryne mused.

The maid and Frederick Wright appeared just then in the foyer. He was tall and imposing with salt-and-pepper hair and dark, calculating eyes. His jacket was tight on his broad shoulders, his bulk straining the old fabric. The maid was about to conduct the necessary introductions when Phryne turned into her elbow and loudly sneezed. “Oh, I am _so_ sorry,” she said, taking the handkerchief Jack promptly offered her. “Hayfever.”

Jack stared at Phryne, blinking. “I didn’t know you had—”

Dot cleared her throat. “Sorry,” she said, “might I have a moment to collect myself?”

“Right this way,” the maid said. “Follow me.”

“We’ll be right in here, Dot,” Phryne said, following Jack and Frederick into the parlor. “Come and find us whenever you’re done.”

* * *

Dot and the maid walked down a long, cool hallway decorated with golden-framed art that was just ugly enough to be self-evidently expensive. Dot shivered. For such a new house it felt strangely haunted, as though misery and pain could become their own sort of phantoms. “I didn’t get your name,” Dot said, “when we were in the foyer. I’m Dorothy Williams, but you’re welcome to call me Dot if you’d like.”

“My name is Beatrice, miss.”

“I’ve always liked that name,” Dot said, because she really had actually, and Beatrice smiled vaguely. 

“Here’s the powder room, miss,” Beatrice said, gesturing to the door closest to where they stood.

“Actually,” Dot said slowly, “I was _really_ hoping to get you alone so we might talk.”

“Why?” Beatrice asked guardedly. “You’re not a constable, are you?”

“No, no,” Dot said quickly. “I’m just Miss Fisher’s secretary. But before I was her secretary I was a maid, and I know what a difficult position it can be, especially when you’re a young girl working for an older man. I thought it might be better for you to speak to someone who could—could understand.”

“I don’t want any part of this,” Beatrice said, crossing her arms. “That detective questioned me in the days after Lord Blackwood died, and I already told him I was sleeping when it--when it happened. I didn’t hear anything, I don’t know what happened, and I don’t _want_ to know what happened.”

“We don’t have to talk about the night Lord Blackwood died, if you don’t want,” Dot offered. “We can talk about whatever you’d like.”

“I’ll get in terrible trouble if I’m caught not doing my work,” Beatrice said, then rolled her eyes. “Not that it matters much as no one is living here at the moment...” she trailed off, considering.

“We won’t be long,” Dot said. “I really miss having other girls my age around to chat with—as, I’m sure, do you.” She smiled beatifically. “Is there somewhere we could have a bit more privacy?”

“We can go to the kitchen,” Beatrice said, then crooked a finger for Dot to follow her.

The kitchen was spacious and tidy, and much brighter than the rest of the gloomy house. Gleaming pots and pans were hung on the back wall, and someone had filled a painted clay vase with a messy but pretty bouquet of wildflowers. “You can sit where you like,” Beatrice said. “I know it’s not much.”

“It’s lovely,” Dot said sincerely. She lowered herself onto an old wooden chair. “How long have you worked for the Blackwoods?”

Beatrice leaned against a tall set of cabinets. “Two months next week.”

“And how is it? Well, how _was_ it before all this dreadfulness, anyway?”

Beatrice shrugged. “Fine enough. Lady Blackwood isn’t so bad. Demanding, but her sort always are. Rich and haughty, that sort of thing. I’m the oldest of eight, though, so I’m good at keeping things tidy and straight. I was always picking up after my brothers and sisters. This isn’t so different. I’ve never really had problems with her.”

“Oh, I know the type. Had a mistress just like her myself once; quite stressful, isn’t it?”

Beatrice nodded, and something about her seemed to open up.

“And Lord Blackwood?” Dot prompted gently. “What was he like?”

Beatrice’s face darkened. “ _He_ didn’t know how to keep his bloody hands to himself,” she said. “That’s why they had so many maids come through here, you know.”

“Was it really?”

Beatrice nodded vigorously. “Always grabbing girls’ arses in the hallway and whispering… _nasty_ things to them. Lady Blackwood caught him—caught him _doing things_ with at least one maid, so I heard.”

“Did he ever… try anything with you?” Dot asked. 

Beatrice eyed Dot shrewdly. “Why do you need to know?” she asked. “That detective didn’t ask me anything like what you’re asking now.”

“My role in the investigation,” Dot said carefully, “is a bit…different than Inspector Robinson’s.”

Beatrice raised an eyebrow. “So what exactly is your _role_ then, Miss Williams?” she asked. “I don’t think I fancy answering questions like the one you just asked if I don’t know why you’ve got them.”

Dot uncrossed her legs before promptly recrossing them. “I’m not sure I can really tell you,” she said.

“Then I’m not sure I can answer what you’re asking me,” Beatrice said stubbornly. She smiled slightly. “You lot think Lord Blackwood was up to something dodgy, don’t you?”  
“Miss Fisher has… a few different ideas,” Dot allowed. “Right now, we’re just trying to find out everything we can about Lord Blackwood and his goings-on.”

Beatrice appeared to ponder this for a moment. “What sorts of goings-on do you mean?” she asked.

“What sort have you heard of?” 

Beatrice bit her bottom lip. “He had loads of men coming and going through the service entrance at all hours of the day and night,” she said, “and they were always locked in a spare room back here—secretive-like, you know, so Lady Blackwood wouldn’t come across them—but they were never the same ones who came to those fancy parties they threw; these didn’t look like the sort you’d want to be mixed up with, not if you’re any kind of respectable.”

“Do you know their names?” Dot asked. “Any of them?”

Beatrice shook her head. “But he kept a ledger,” she added hopefully, “a leather one. He left it on his desk once; I saw it when I came in to clean. I took a peek but couldn’t make heads nor tails; I’ve got no head for figures.”

“Do you have any idea where it might be now?” Dot asked breathlessly.

“He’s got a safe in his office,” Beatrice said. “I’ll bet he’s got loads of things in there that he never wanted anyone to find.” She looked Dot up and down without any pretense. “I’m a good girl, Miss Williams, and I know another good girl when I see one. Be careful. Lord Blackwood’s lot aren’t going to like being investigated, and I don’t think they’ll treat you any kinder just because you’re a lady.”

“Thank you, Beatrice,” Dot said, smiling, “but I am made of sterner stuff than you may think.”

“Maybe,” Beatrice said doubtfully. She looked at the clock on her bedside table. “We’d best get you back to the parlor, miss. They’ll start to wonder where you’ve got to.”

“Yes, I suppose we should,” Dot said, then stood up. “Thank you for your help Beatrice, really; Miss Fisher will be thrilled to hear all that you told me.”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing his reputation take a hit,” Beatrice admitted. “You know he hit Lady Blackwood, don’t you? Beat her senseless. I’m not sorry to see the back of him.”

“No,” Dot said, “I’d imagine you aren’t.”

* * *

Phryne, Jack, and Frederick Wright spent a few moments cloaked in awkward silence once they were properly introduced and seated in the parlor. Mr. Wright stared Jack and Phryne down, and Phryne very nearly rolled her eyes. Men like Mr. Wright, in her experience, always assumed they were infinitely more intimidating than they truly were. Phryne offered Mr. Wright her sweetest smile, which widened when he only glared at her in return.

Jack raised an eyebrow and slapped his palms against his thighs. “Right,” he said, “no sense beating around the bush, is there? Now, Mr. Wright,” he said as he jotted something in his notepad, “you knew Lord Blackwood for quite some time, yes?”

“We met during the War,” he answered. “I was Lord Blackwood’s batman, and he kept me on as staff once we were both back home.”

“That was certainly generous of him,” Phryne said. “I imagine the two of you must have been quite close.”

Frederick narrowed his eyes. “We got on,” he conceded. “He was good to me, Lord Blackwood. Lent a hand when my mum was ill a few years ago. He didn’t have to do that, but he did.”

“What was the nature of the work you did for Lord Blackwood?” Jack asked.

Frederick shrugged. “Nothing unusual,” he said. “Ran errands, kept things at home straight, helped him with his business when he needed it.” 

“What business was that?” Jack asked.

“Tea,” Frederick answered. “The Blackwoods run a plantation in Malaya and import it. Have done for years and years.”

“And what was your role?”

“Well,” Frederick said, “Lord Blackwood was responsible for having it brought here, to a warehouse. Once it arrived, he and I worked with the distributor he’d licensed to issue the tea.”

“Was that Lord Blackwood’s only source of income?” Phryne asked, mindful not to sound too curious or eager.

Frederick sat up a bit straighter. “What do you mean?” he asked warily. 

Jack glanced at Phryne. “We know that Lord Blackwood was a very wealthy individual,” he said, “and I imagine that Miss Fisher simply wishes to know how that money was earned.”

“Family money, a lot of it,” Frederick answered, “but he didn’t have any businesses besides the tea, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“What’s the name of his distributor?” Phryne asked, delicately crossing her legs at the ankle.

“Arthur Hammond,” Frederick said. “I can give you his information before you leave, if you’d like.”

“That would be most helpful, thank you,” Phryne said pleasantly.

“I was talking to the constable,” Frederick said, scowling.

“Silly me,” Phryne said, deadpan. She cocked her head to the side. “You’re not from Melbourne, are you, Mr. Wright? I can tell by your accent. You’re from London.”

“I don’t see what that matters,” Frederick said sharply. 

“It doesn’t,” Phryne said. “It was merely an observation.” Upon a frustrated look from Jack, she stood and walked across the room under the pretenses of examining a painting.

“I’ve been told you weren’t present here for much of the night Lord Blackwood died,” Jack said. “Is that correct?”

“It is.”

“The governess, Mrs. Davies, said you were out doing errands,” Phryne said without turning around, “though it seems to me it was rather late for you to be out anywhere at all. What’s the estimated time of death, Jack?” Here, she did turn around. “Around midnight, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, Miss Fisher, it is,” Jack said. He sounded tired.

“So I suppose my question, Mr. Wright,” Phryne said, placing an elegant hand on her left hip, “is what on Earth could have possibly called you out of the house at such an hour?”

Frederick’s face turned a dangerous shade of red. “There was some urgent business,” he said through gritted teeth, “with the tea distributor that needed to be taken care of.”

“I’d no idea the tea trade was so terribly high stakes,” Phryne said mildly. “How fascinating.”

“But you didn’t see anything when you returned?” Jack said, redirecting the conversation. “Nothing at all?”

Frederick continued to glower at Phryne as he said, “No, nothing. My quarters are towards the back of the house, where all the staffs’ are. We use a rear entrance. I went straight to bed once I was back and didn’t wake up until the maid was screaming fit to wake the bloody dead.”

“If only she’d been successful,” Phryne said softly, the corners of her mouth twitching. “We wouldn’t be having this delightful conversation.”

Suddenly, Dot appeared in the parlor doorway. Phryne raised her right eyebrow and cocked her head to the side: _well, did you find out anything useful_?

Dot smiled and nodded once. _Yes_.

Phryne glanced at the clock on the mantel. “I wonder if we shouldn’t start wrapping things up,” she said with notes of honeyed, exaggerated apology. “Lady Blackwood is staying with me, and we ought to check on her.” She stared levelly at Mr. Wright. “She’s quite ill, you see. Pneumonia brought on by a broken rib.”

Mr. Wright had the decency--or at the very least, the commonsense--to appear abashed following Phryne’s comment. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said gruffly.

Phryne pursed her lips. “How gallant of you,” she said, then looked to Jack. “Shall we?”

Once they’d made their good-byes and were safely ensconced in Jack’s car, Phryne spoke. “He’s lying, you know.”

“About the tea?” Jack asked.

“No, I’m sure that’s true,” Phryne said, “but about there not being any other sources of income. Did you see how edgy he got when I asked about why he was out so late? He’s hiding something. I’m sure of it.” She turned towards the backseat so she was facing Dot. “What do you think, Dot?”

“Well, miss,” Dot said carefully, “it certainly seems plausible.”

“See?” Phryne said. “Dot thinks it’s plausible.”

“If only I could build a case around what Miss Williams does or does not find plausible,” Jack said. “Speaking of--Miss Williams, where did you go while we were there? You were in the ladies for quite some time.”

“Oh- _oh_ ,” Dot stammered, bright pink. “I got a bit--a bit turned around, on my way back to the parlor. It’s a very big house.”

“Mm, indeed it is,” Jack said with laughing eyes. “And did you encounter anything interesting as you attempted to find your way back to us?”

“Oh, I should hardly think so, Inspector Robinson,” Dot said angelically.

* * *

“Would you mind terribly driving me to the bookshop where Miss Spellman works?” Phryne asked once they’d taken Dot to the St. Kilda house. “It’s occurred to me that in the chaos of the day nobody’s bothered to tell her about Zelda being ill, and she’ll want to know about it, naturally.”

“That’s fine,” Jack said, then gave Phryne a sideways look. “Is that all the two of you will be discussing?”

Phryne laughed. “I’m not a fortune teller, Jack,” she said. “How am I meant to know what topics we’ll cover?”

“What, precisely,” Jack said, “are you planning, Miss Fisher?”

“What in heaven’s name gave you the absolutely ridiculous notion that I’m planning something?”

“Miss Fisher,” Jack said seriously, “you are _always_ planning something.”

Jack dropped Phryne at the shop just before 5:00. Hilda was behind the counter, ringing up a customer, so Phryne gave her a small wave. Hilda returned the gesture with one of her own. She was pale and tired. Phryne decided that she needed to do a more thorough job of checking on Hilda. She came across so certain and steady that it was too easy to overlook how difficult this entire situation was for her as well. Phryne was acutely familiar with the pain of the world assuming your wellbeing is never a matter of concern. It was lovely to be looked after, even if you thought you hadn’t earned the right to ask for it. Perhaps _especially_ if you thought you hadn’t earned the right to ask for it.

Phryne approached the counter once the customer was gone. “How are you?” she asked. “You’re a bit peaky; I hope you’re not getting ill, too.”

“I didn’t really manage to sleep last night,” Hilda said, pressing a hand briefly against her temple. “I couldn’t seem to get my brain to--to quiet.”

“Is there somewhere private we could talk?” Phryne asked. “I promise we won’t be long.” 

Hilda thought a moment. “There’s a cafe a few shops down,” she said, “and a park just across the way. We could get sandwiches and take them there?”

“Oh, that sounds lovely,” Phryne said. “I’m famished. Let’s do that then, shall we? My treat.”

“Really, Miss Fisher, you don’t have to--”

“Of course I don’t _have_ to,” Phryne said, “but I very much _want_ to.”

Hilda nodded. “Let me go make sure that Dr. Cee doesn’t mind locking up tonight and then we can be on our way,” she said.

“He’s your fiancé, isn’t he?” Phryne whispered once Hilda was done making her arrangements. “He’s very handsome. Absolutely gorgeous brown eyes.”

Hilda flushed with pleasure. “Yes, he is,” she said.

“How did the two of you meet?” Phryne asked as Hilda gathered her things.

“He owns the shop,” Hilda said, “and I spent quite a bit of time here when we first moved to Melbourne. One afternoon I asked about a job,” here, she giggled, “and _he_ asked _me_ to dinner.”

“How long have you the two of you been engaged?”

“Only about four months,” Hilda said, shrugging into her coat. “I’m ready when you are.” 

“How’s Zelds?” Hilda asked as they ambled down the sidewalk. “Is her cold any better?”

“Ah, well,” Phryne said, “that’s actually the main reason I wanted to talk to you. My friend Mac--that’s Elizabeth MacMillan, she’s a doctor--came by this morning to examine Zelda and as it turns out she…doesn’t have a cold.”

Hilda narrowed her eyes. “Then what _does_ she have?” she asked.

Phryne hesitated for a moment before replying. “Pneumonia. It’s very mild!” she added hastily when Hilda shot her a positively murderous look. “And we caught it early stages. She doesn’t even need to be treated outside of the home at this point.”

Hilda stopped in the middle of the sidewalk so abruptly that Phryne nearly tripped and fell. “Let me get this straight,” Hilda seethed, hands planted on her hips. “You’ve known since this _morning_ that my sister has _pneumonia_ , and it’s only just _now_ , hours and hours later, occurred to you that you should perhaps pass that bit of information on?” 

She resumed walking, anger lengthening her stride despite her relatively short stature. “And _how_ did she even develop pneumonia in the first place? Surely not from just having a cold?”

Phryne quickened her pace until she was in step with Hilda once again. She took a deep breath. “Dr. MacMillan,” she said, “suspects it was brought on by lung irritation due to a--a fractured rib.”

“Fractured?” Hilda asked. “Her rib is broken?”

“Well, there’s no way to tell for sure,” Phryne acknowledged, “but Dr. MacMillan’s diagnosis was as certain as it can be.”

“And the break,” Hilda said, “it obviously would’ve been caused by--by…what happened the night that--that Faustus….”

Phryne nodded. Whatever she was expecting following this revelation, it certainly wasn’t what transpired. Hilda’s face paled, and her expression shifted from anger to exhaustion. Her lower lip trembled, and she promptly burst into tears. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed, “I don’t--I don’t know why--I’m so sorry--”

They were outside the cafe. Phryne put an arm around Hilda and guided her to sit at one of the outdoor tables. She handed Hilda a handkerchief. “Are you alright to wait here while I get us something to eat?” Phryne asked. 

Hilda nodded, hiccoughing through her tears. When Phryne returned, she carried a paper bag filled with sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. “While I was standing in line it occurred to me that I’d no idea what you prefer,” Phryne said, laughing, hoping to lighten the mood a bit, “so I just bought one of everything.”

Hilda did not laugh, but she did manage a wobbly, tearful smile. She tried to hand Phryne back her handkerchief, but Phryne shook her head. “You keep it,” she said. “I’ve got plenty.” She extended a hand and helped Hilda stand up. “Shall we?”

They crossed the street and walked over to the park. They found a secluded bench near a grove of bottlebrush trees, where they could talk without being overheard or disturbed. Phryne unwrapped an egg and watercress sandwich for Hilda and a cucumber sandwich for herself. “I really am terribly sorry that I didn’t tell you about Zelda being ill sooner,” she said once she’d swallowed her first bite. 

Hilda waved her off as she took a bite of her own sandwich. “It’s not your fault,” she said. “It’s not even you that I was upset with, really. I was--am--angry at myself.”

“Absolutely _none_ of this is your fault,” Phryne said emphatically. “You must know that.”

“Really, must I?” Hilda said. “Because it feels so much like it _is_.”

Phryne took Hilda’s hands in her own. “There’s nothing you could’ve done differently,” Phryne said. “He was a powerful man, and a violent one at that. It’s a dreadful combination.”

“I suppose,” Hilda allowed, though she didn’t sound especially convinced. “Was there something else you wanted to talk about?”  
“Yes, there is,” Phryne said. “How much do you know about Faustus’s tea importing business?”

Hilda blinked. “Not very much, I’m afraid,” she said. “Why?”

“Do you remember a few days ago, when you told me that you suspected Faustus was involved in the opium trade?” she asked. “Do you think it’s possible that he used the tea as a front?”

Hilda’s eyes widened. “You know, I think that’s more than possible,” she said. “I’d go so far as to say it’s likely.” She leaned in closer to Phryne. “If I tell you something, can you keep from mentioning to Zelda that we discussed it? It’s a conversation I’ve had with her before, you see, and all it did was upset her.”

“I won’t tell her,” Phryne said. “What is it?”

“Has Zelds told you anything about how our brother Edward died?”

“Yes, only this morning,” Phryne said. “She told me he and Sabrina’s mother were in a car crash becaused Edward fell asleep at the wheel.”

“Well, that’s what all the official documents say, anyway,” Hilda said.

“But you think differently?” Phryne whispered.

“Edward and Faustus were close for years,” Hilda said, “but in the last few months of Edward’s life, Edward started…pulling away from their friendship. And just _days_ before Edward died, I overheard Faustus and Edward having a terrible argument, something about _if you won’t fix this, Faustus, then I’ll fix it for you_. I’ve always thought that, maybe, Edward knew what Faustus was doing and was trying to put a stop to it.”

Hilda picked nervously at her thumbnail. “I really don’t have any _reason_ to suspect that Faustus had anything to do with the crash,” she continued, “except that everything within me has spent the last near-decade screaming at me that he did.”

“But Zelda disagrees with you?” Phryne asked.

“You need to understand that her relationship with Faustus was so complicated,” Hilda said. “She, Edward, and Faustus were all thick as thieves when they were children. She _adored_ Faustus, even after he didn’t deserve it anymore.”

“She’s talked to me a bit about it.”

“So you can see why me telling her that Faustus orchestrated our older brother’s murder would be difficult for her to bear,” Hilda said, smiling ruefully. “We hardly spoke for weeks, after. I’d never seen her so angry and hurt.”

Phryne sighed and slumped slightly against the bench. “It’s getting late,” she said, glancing up at the pink and orange sky. “I should be getting back. It’s not fair to leave Dot and Mr. Butler with two little girls and a convalescent for this long.”

“And Dr. Cee will be wondering where I am,” said Hilda, polishing off the last of her sandwich. She brushed the crumbs off her skirt and looked at Phryne. “Miss Fisher?”

“Yes?”

“Do you really think it’ll make such a difference?” Hilda asked. “What you’re doing?”

Phryne looked at Hilda Spellman, who was uncertain and hopeful and wanting, all at once. “Here’s something you must know about me, Miss Spellman,” Phryne said, her voice steely. “I’ve found that when the world isn’t giving me what I want, all that means is that I simply must find a creative way to bend it to my whims.”

* * *

Phryne was finally home again at half-past eight. “Good evening, Miss Fisher,” Mr. Butler greeted as he took her coat. “How was your afternoon?”

“Taxing,” Phryne said with a small smile, “but productive nonetheless.”

“Would you like dinner? Dot passed along your message; we made rice milanaise. Misses Sabrina and Jane were getting hungry so they’ve already eaten, but Dot set aside a plate in the cold box for you.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry; I completely forgot I gave Dot any instructions. I don’t know where my head is today. I had sandwiches with Miss Spellman at a cafe. But I wouldn’t say no to a bit of coffee,” Phryne said, kicking off her shoes. “What about Zelda? Did she have anything?”

“I made Lady Blackwood my mother’s special chicken soup,” Mr. Butler said. “Guaranteed to cure what ails you. She took it in bed, though I’ve not yet returned for the tray.”  


“I’ll collect her tray; it’s the least I can do after all the help you’ve been today,” Phryne said. “I’m going up just now to see how she’s feeling anyway. Would you mind bringing the coffee to me in her room?”

“Of course, Miss.”

Phryne knocked softly on Zelda’s door, mindful of the fact that she could very well be sleeping. “Come in,” Zelda called, her voice decidedly hoarse but cheerier than it had been that morning.

Zelda was in bed, propped up by a veritable mountain of pillows. The radio hummed in the background: it was a program Phryne didn’t recognize, though that may have had something to do with the fact that it was in German. Sabrina, dressed in a ruffled pink nightgown patterned with roses, was curled up in the corner armchair as she read _The Adventures of Doctor Dolittle_.

“I only wanted to see how you’re feeling,” Phryne said softly. “I don’t mean to interrupt your cozy evening.”

“You’re not interrupting anything,” Zelda said, taking in Phryne’s red and purple chiffon dress with subtle appreciation. “We’re delighted to see you.” She looked as if she meant it, and if Phryne had been anyone else she might’ve blushed.

“That’s a beautiful nightgown, Sabrina,” Phryne said, and was pleased when the girl beamed, stood, and twirled in a circle to make the skirt flounce.

“Auntie Hilda sewed it for me,” she said. “She makes the prettiest clothes. I have a blue nightie like this one, only it has dear little dollies on it instead of roses.”

“Sabrina,” Zelda said, “why don’t you go and find Jane. The two of you should have time for a game of draughts before bed, hm? Doesn’t that sound fun?”

Sabrina rolled her eyes and kissed Zelda on her cheek. “Auntie,” she said, “I know that you and Miss Fisher want to do private talking. You can just say so; I don’t mind.”

Zelda laughed, loud and full-throated, and the pure joy in the unfamiliar sound warmed Phryne down to her toes. “You’re quite right, Sabrina,” Zelda said. “We grown-ups would like a bit of time to ourselves. Is that alright?”

“Yes, Aunt Zelda,” Sabrina said. “I’ll come back to say good night in a little while though.” She nodded seriously as she closed the door behind her, as though she feared leaving her aunt unsupervised at length.

“She’s such a funny thing,” Phryne chuckled. “I’ve truly never wanted children of my own, but between your Sabrina and my Jane I may just find myself changing my mind.”

“She is entirely too bright for her own good,” Zelda said wryly, “which Hilda says is my penance for being _exactly_ the same when I was her age.” She sighed. “Jane is good for her, I think. She’s never had much in the way of companions before. She was—is, I suppose—very close with her cousin Ambrose, but even he’s eight years her senior and bound to grow annoyed with her antics at times. She’s struggled since he started at Oxford last September.”

“Is that why she doesn’t want to go away to school?” Phryne asked. “She’s afraid she won’t make any friends?”

“Yes and no,” Zelda said with a worried frown. “Sabrina has always been very… attached to Hilda and myself, and it became much worse during the three years I was married to Faustus. I fear I wasn’t very successful at obscuring particular… aspects of our relationship from her.” Zelda shifted slightly, wincing and unconsciously clutching at her ribs as she did so.

“How are you feeling?” Phryne asked, and reached out to touch her arm. “Any better?”

“A bit,” Zelda said. “The medicines help, even if the codeine makes me almost intolerably groggy.”

“And your temperature?”

“38.5°, last I checked,” Zelda said, “which is an improvement, if not ideal.”

“Excuse me, Miss Fisher,” Mr. Butler said from the doorway, “I’ve got your coffee here.”

“You are a _treasure_ , Mr. B,” Phryne said, waving him into the bedroom and accepting the mug eagerly. “Would you like anything, Zelda? Tea, perhaps? I’ve got a lavender and jasmine blend that’s simply divine.”

“No, thank you,” Zelda said, smiling up at Mr. Butler. “I fear that I’ve taken advantage of Mr. Butler’s hospitality entirely enough for today.”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Butler said genially, exiting with a small bow and a flourish. “The pleasure is mine.”

Phryne took a long sip of coffee, swallowed, and sighed. It occurred to her that even though Zelda had only been staying with them for a matter of days, already she couldn’t seem to imagine what the house would be like without her.

“Phryne?” Zelda said, a note of hesitance in her voice.

“Yes?”

“I was wondering,” Zelda said, looking anywhere but at Phryne, “if you might… help me have a bath. I think it would make me feel a bit more myself, but I’m not certain that I have enough strength to do it safely on my own.”

Phryne blinked. “I’d be happy to help you,” she said, “but are you sure you don’t want me to call your sister? I imagine she’d have no complaints about popping by—”

“No,” Zelda interrupted hastily, “no, please don’t. I’ve lost so much weight recently, and I know Hilda will worry and fuss over it.”

“Then of course I will,” Phryne said. “I’ll fill the tub, and once it’s ready I’ll come and help you to the bathroom.”

Phryne filled the tub with water—warm but not too hot, just as Mac had instructed. She added some dried lavender, chamomile, and a dash of honey, along with the eucalyptus tincture Dot had picked up from the chemist. Once the tub was full nearly to the point of overflowing, Phryne dipped her fingers in to check the temperature. Satisfied, she returned to the bedroom and found Zelda dozing fitfully. 

“Zelda?” Phryne said gently, then smiled as Zelda’s eyes blinked open. “The bath is ready when you are.”

Zelda yawned and stretched languid limbs. “I’d like to try walking without help,” she said, then grimaced. “As if that’s some sort of a feat of endurance.” 

She climbed out of the bed and began to take slow, careful steps. As she passed Phryne, though, she went ashen. She stumbled, and only Phryne’s hand on her shoulder kept her from falling. “Easy,” Phryne murmured, and wrapped her arm around Zelda’s middle. “Is this alright?”

Zelda nodded and pressed her lips together to keep her mouth from trembling. “This is absurd,” she said, posture ramrod straight despite her obvious exhaustion, “and humiliating. Not being able to cross a blasted _room_ without assistance.”

“You are not the first person to need a bit of extra care following an injury, nor will you be the last,” Phryne said. “Can you stand on your own?” she asked once they’d made it into the bathroom, her arm still secured around Zelda’s waist.

“Maybe—no, oh, I don’t know,” Zelda said, frustrated. Tears sprang to her eyes. “I’m sorry I’m turning this into such an ordeal. Really, it’s nothing more than a bath and the way I’m carrying on you’d think the world was ending.”

“You’re not carrying on in the slightest,” Phryne said firmly. “Being ill is a trial, particularly as ill as you are right now.”

“But I’m not—”

“You are,” Phryne said gently, “and you’re allowed to say so. Here,” she said, lowering Zelda gently onto the edge of the tub, “do you mind if I help you undress?”

Zelda hesitated for a moment before she nodded and exhaled. “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” she reassured. “I—it’s a bit difficult to allow anyone to see me when I’m so—so vulnerable.”

“Then I feel honored to be granted such a privilege,” Phryne said. “Arms up.”

Phryne tried to approach her task with the same sort of clinical detachment that she would’ve had as a nurse, but this was undeniably difficult given that she knew Zelda as she did. She kept her expression carefully neutral even as she was struck by the thought that Zelda’s skin was very soft. 

Once Zelda was divested of her nightgown and undergarments, Phryne helped her step into the tub. “Oh,” Zelda sighed, sinking into the water until only her face was above the water line, “this is divine. Thank you, Phryne.”

They sat in companionable silence for some time. Phryne drank her coffee as she read a novel and Zelda carefully sponged her limbs. When Zelda got to her hair, though, she paused. “Phryne,” she said.

“Yes?” Phryne said, folding the corner of her current page and shutting the book. “What is it, darling?”

“I feel so silly asking this at all,” Zelda said, “but I need to wash my hair and it rather hurts to lift my arms above my head for more than a few seconds at a time. I was wondering if you could… provide some more aid.”

Phryne swallowed and blushed. “I—yes,” she said, “yes, of course I can.” She took a glass basin from the side of the tub and filled it with warm water. “Tip your head back,” she instructed Zelda. Once she had placed a cupped hand over Zelda’s brow to shield her face, she carefully poured the water over Zelda’s hair. 

Phryne massaged the cleansing cream into Zelda’s scalp, taking special care to get at the roots. As Phryne combed her fingers through long copper tresses, Zelda occasionally emitted a satisfied little sigh or moan. Phryne pointedly attempted to ignore these sounds, with limited success.

“You’re very good at this,” Zelda said, and was there a hint of impishness in her tone? Phryne couldn’t tell. 

“Am I?” she answered faintly, rinsing out the shampoo. “Well, you have lovely hair.”

Zelda hummed her thanks. “I know wearing it short is the fashion right now,” she said, “but I can’t seem to bear the thought of cutting it.”

“Long hair suits you,” Phryne said, “though really I think just about any style would suit you, if I’m being perfectly honest.”

A genuine smile lit up Zelda’s eyes. “You’re sweet to say so,” she said, then shivered slightly.

“And _that_ ,” Phryne said, “is our cue that it’s well past time for you to be out of that tub before the water turns from ally to enemy. I’d hate for you to catch a chill on top of everything else.” 

Phryne extended a hand and allowed Zela to lean on her as she stood. She pulled the plug from the drain and wrapped Zelda in a thick, fluffy towel. “That kimono I’ve seen you wearing a few times,” Phryne said, “and your nightgown—are those the only bedtime clothes you’ve brought with you?”

Zelda nodded, and Phryne frowned. “That won’t do at all,” Phryne said. “Here, let’s get you settled on the edge of the bed, and I’ll be right back.”

Phryne went to her own bedroom and obtained her warmest winter dressing gown and a pair of flannel pyjamas; they rarely got any use, but did occasionally come in handy when it was especially cold or she was feeling under the weather. It occurred unbidden to Phryne that the clothes would smell like Zelda once she was done wearing them, and her pulse jumped. Mac’s words rang in her head: _I think you should tread very, very carefully, Phryne_. It was as though Mac had unlocked a Pandora’s box deep within Phryne’s psyche, and Phryne was at a loss when it came to processing what was emerging from within it.

She took a moment to consciously regain her composure. _Really_ , Phryne berated herself, eyes closed, _you’re acting like a lovesick girl, which is the very last thing that woman needs right now_.

Phryne shook her head, fixed her hair, and returned to the guest room. “I think you’ll find these much cozier,” she said, holding out the items so Zelda could see them. “Would you like Mr. Butler to light a fire in the hearth tonight?” Phryne asked as she helped Zelda into the pyjama top. “I know it’s not cold out, but I worry about you going to bed with wet hair.”

“You’re starting to sound like Hilda,” Zelda said, but there was no irritation in her voice, only light teasing. 

Phryne blushed for what felt like the thousandth time that evening. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t mean to.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Zelda said through a yawn. “It’s nice, somehow, when it’s you.” Properly bundled, she slid under the bedclothes and yawned again. “I never knew doing nothing all day could be so exhausting,” she said.

“Healing isn’t nothing,” Phryne said. “Not in my estimation, anyway.” 

Before she could change her mind, she brushed a damp lock of hair back from Zelda’s forehead. Zelda reached out and wrapped a hand around Phryne’s wrist. “Thank you,” she said, earnest and quiet, “for everything. I don’t know what I could’ve done to deserve it, but I’m eternally grateful all the same.”

“You don’t need to do anything to deserve kindness, Zelda,” Phryne said. “Not with me.”

Phryne realized her hand was still on Zelda’s forehead, and she pulled it back, then cleared her throat. “I should let you sleep,” she said. “Good night, Zelda.”

Zelda stared at Phryne, eyes wide and deep, and there was an element in her expression that Phryne couldn’t quite read. “Good night, Phryne,” Zelda returned. “I will see you in the morning.”

Once Phryne had closed the door behind her, she sank down onto the floor and placed her face in her hands. _What_ , she thought, _am I going to do?_

And for once, no matter how hard she pondered that question, she could not come up with an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have y'all ever gone to the "I write like" website (iwl.me). You put in text from something you've written and a statistical analysis tool analyzes your word choice and writing style, and then compares those things with famous authors. I put in some of this fic, and it told me I wrote like Agatha Christie! Given that this fic is a mystery, I suppose I must be doing more right than wrong if that's how it comes across :D


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